Captain of All These Men of Death
by Dangsoo
Summary: Neglect of his body in his youth brings grave consequences for Sherlock when an unexpected illness strikes him hard. An exploration into Sherlock's history and addiction. Set partially after S3, and partially before John met Sherlock. Sick!Sherlock Addict!Sherlock
1. De Causis et Signis Diuturnorum Morborum

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 1

2015

 _De causis et signis diuturnorum morborum_

Baker Street was unusually tranquil that morning. The little digital clock on the shelf, partially concealed by clutter, had just flicked to 7:00am. Dust hung in the air, slowly sinking towards the furniture below. The silence seemed to seep deeply into every corner. The kitchen was equally still; the only thing disturbing the quiet being the regular _plip_ of the tap into the washing-up basin. The fridge clicked and hummed itself to life. Mugs were dotted everywhere, a plate and wine glass sat on the side, and a sauce-slick wok on the stovetop. If one were to walk in, they would immediately notice the evidence of life, but the room seemed to lack the industrious presence it usually held. Nonetheless, its eclectic charm remained.

Sherlock sensed the silence as he entered the room. It washed over him as he sat himself down in his armchair, bare feet flat on the rug, his silken dressing gown wrapped tightly around him like a protective blanket. He willed his breathing to quieten, stifling a cough, and sank into the stillness for a moment, his quick mind observing and analysing the lack of external stimuli. He was loathe to disturb the atmosphere surrounding him, however the idea of no morning cuppa was far worse. He padded to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle, and quickly realised there were no clean mugs. His eyes scanned the room for the dirty objects as he absently filled the sink, before sweeping them all up and dumping them unceremoniously into the hot, soapy water. The water boiled before he was able to finish them all. He filled a freshly cleaned mug and allowed the tea to stew as he continued washing up.

John fished around in his pocket for his key. Locating it, he unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street and allowed Mary in first before stepping over the threshold, letting the door swing shut as they began to ascend the stairs to Sherlock's flat. Calling for Sherlock, they entered the living room. Sherlock smiled from his usual position in his chair. A fresh pot of tea was sitting on the coffee table.

"How are you, John? Mary?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his own drink.

Mary replied as John poured tea. "Fine, thanks." She took the cup proffered to her.

John took a sip of his own. "She's getting bigger by the day."

Mary eyed John, unimpressed. "My back hurts all the time. I make John do everything now." She winked at Sherlock. "I can see why you do it. You alright? Have you had any interesting cases?"

Sherlock finished his tea and slung his mug onto the side table next to John. "Nothing. Absolutely _nothing_ ," he grimaced and coughed, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his hands atop them. "I'm getting _bored_."

'Bored' was never a word John wanted to hear come from Sherlock's mouth. "How long has it been since you last worked on one?"

"Three whole days!"

John's eyebrows rose. "Wait, so you haven't had a case since the last one we worked on together?" Sherlock's frustrated scowl told him all he needed to know. John studied his friend, before standing and walking to the kitchen to refill the teapot.

Sherlock stretched himself out and sank down into the armchair, his long legs straight. John glanced at his watch. It was 10:00am. He searched his mind for something Mary and he could occupy Sherlock with as he absently opened the fridge for milk.

"How about we-" his words died in his throat as he came face to face with the entire front half of a ram. Sherlock had been forced to remove two shelves to fit the thing in, it's front legs awkwardly bent underneath it's body, horns pressed up against the side of the fridge wall. John could only dumbly turn to the couple in the living room and point at the huge animal, his mouth open.

Sherlock blinked at him. "What?"

"Ram."

"Well done, John."

Mary's eyes sparkled. "Ram, as in sheep?"

Sherlock glanced at Mary. "No, because a Ram is the male form of a sheep. Though technically this one is a wethers due to the fac-"

Mary had struggled up from her chair. "I've got to see this."

Sherlock's mouth quirked a smile as he watched her approach a violently protesting John and peer into the open fridge. "Amazing," she muttered. "That must weigh at least 30 kilos."

John turned silently back to the fridge and grabbed the milk, before quickly shutting the door on the offending animal and sloshing some of the milk into his tea. He decided to leave the bottle on the side. He sat back in his chair, Mary joining them. "Where in the hell did you manage to get a hold of the front half of a _ram?!_ "

Sherlock simply shrugged. "I'm studying the degenerative effect of arsenic on the brain in animals."

John balked. "There's _arsenic_ in the fridge?! Next to your _food?!_ _"_ He quickly put down his tea.

"Oh, don't worry. There's only a small chance of cross contamination."

John just gaped at his friend, his mouth opening and closing. "You know," said Sherlock, "that's quite an unflattering expression." He shrugged. "I don't cook much anyway."

" _That doesn_ _'_ _t make it okay!_ _"_ John pressed his hand to his brow in frustration, letting out a strained sigh. This was a battle he was inevitably destined to lose. "Don't come running to me if you die of arsenic poisoning."

"I'm quite confident I won't be running anywhere if I die of arsenic poisoning, John," Sherlock observed dryly, before coughing. John simply huffed loudly at him while Mary chuckled into her teacup.

Mary spoke up. "Right then. I think we should go somewhere. I want lunch out, and it sounds like you need to get out of the house." She smiled at the two, and when neither moved, made to stand, holding an arm out for John to help her up. "Come on, you two! I want to breathe some London smog, and I bet you've got a few good restaurants up your sleeve, don't you Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled, standing. He strode over to the coat rack, handing them each their coats and donning his own. "Well," he said, "that will depend on which nationality you would prefer." He coughed into his sleeve as they descended the stairs and left the flat.

As Mary hailed a cab, John pulled Sherlock back. "Sherlock, I don't mean to nag, but you've had that cough for a while now. Are you alright?"

Sherlock looked at his blonde friend and smiled. "Of course. It's just a small cough, John."

"I am still your doctor, even though I don't actually live here any more. If it gets any worse, tell me, and if it doesn't go awa-"

"Tell you. I know, John."

"I know you know, and yet you still find it necessary to consistently not do it."

The taxi pulled up and John helped Mary in, Sherlock hopping in after. He leaned towards the driver. "Seymour Place, please. Marble Arch." He turned back to the couple. "I have a debt with the woman who runs the Italian there. Got her son off a drug dealing charge a few months ago - it was his friend. Meticulously framed, though. Took me an hour longer to work out than I expected."

The mishmash of modern and historic buildings whizzed past as the driver took them through London, Sherlock occasionally suggesting alternative routes. Soon enough, Regents Park swung into view, before the driver turned off into a side street and pulled up in front of a row of small, trendy shops. John paid the driver and the three alighted, before entering the little trattoria. A large colourfully dressed Italian woman with too much lipstick hurried up to them, having immediately clocked the sleuth. 'Sherlock Holmes! It is so good to see you! Please, sit, sit!" She gestured to a table and pulled a chair out for Mary, continuing to babble in her strong Italian accent as she handed them menus. "Anything is free for you and your friends. Anything!" She bustled away, instructing the waiter to get bread and water for the table.

John smiled down at the menu. "I forgot about this little perk you seem to accumulate. Remind me to take your culinary suggestions more often."

The waiter returned and turned to Mary to take her order. "What's the spiciest thing you have on the menu?" She asked him.

"Um, probably the Penne Salsiccia, ma'am."

Sherlock piped up. "No, it's the Chicken Calabrese. You can tell by the type of chillies the chef is currently preparing."

"Then I'll have that." Mary ignored the amused sideways look John gave her and Sherlock and handed back her menu. "I can't get enough spicy stuff these days. I'll come home from work and eat chillies straight from the jar by themselves. I'm worried there isn't actually a baby any more - I'm just gonna give birth to a jalapeno."

"The reason you are craving spicy food is due to the fact the capsacinoids act as an irritant and cause a burning sensation which in turn makes you sweat. Your body is cooling itself down in response to the hormonal changes and increased blood flow to-"

"Yes, we know Sherlock. I am a doctor, if you haven't forgotten." John chided. "Are you going to order, or what?"

Sherlock looked back to the waiter, having forgotten he was even there. "Um…"

"He'll have what I'm having." John interjected, and the waiter left. John looked to Sherlock. "Are you sure you're ok?"

Fate chose that point to give Sherlock the uncontrollable urge to cough, which rather dampened his assertions that he was "fine, completely fine." He was forced to cough into his sleeve to avoid the other two, the doctor of which now studying him more intently. "Its just a little cough, for gods sake. I'm not dying," he said when the fit subsided.

"No, but you're not exactly ready for a mad sprint through the back streets of London either." John replied. "Maybe its good you haven't had a case. Give your body some time to rest."

"I've worked with much poorer health than a cough, John."

"Yes, and that doesn't make me feel the slightest bit better."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine. Stop worrying."

John decided to leave it at that point and change the subject, sensing he wasn't going to win. Soon after, their food arrived, and after smirking at Mary's complaint that the food wasn't spicy enough and offering to isolate and synthesise some capsacin for her in the lab, Sherlock ate. John felt a small surge of relief when Sherlock finished his plate. ' _He can_ _'_ _t be feeling that bad then,_ _'_ he thought.

As they were making to leave, the Italian woman emerged again in a flurry of movement and colour, full of thanks and with a bottle of wine which she pushed onto Sherlock. Sherlock inspected it in the taxi back. "Chianti, 1980. Not too bad." He handed it to John. "Here."

John looked at him. "I don't know anything about wine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, it's for you to drink. I prefer white."

"Oh! Thanks, Sherlock."

Mary leaned into John. "Save it for when I can have a glass too, yeah?" John smiled and nodded.

The taxi pulled up to Baker Street. Sherlock bid the married couple goodbye at the doorstep, them having no reason to come in, before ascending the stairs to 221B. He flipped the kettle on, and went about making tea, ignoring the ram as he pulled the milk from the fridge. As he sat in his well worn armchair, the sounds of Tchaikovsky tinkling through the flat from the radio on the bookshelf, he forced back another cough. _'_ _Well, no matter,_ _'_ he thought, getting up and walking towards the bathroom to find some cough syrup.

His phone chimed as he reached the bathroom door. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he read the text, spun on his heel, grabbed his coat, and dashed from the flat towards Lestrade and his next cure of boredom.

The tea, forgotten, was allowed to grow cold.

* * *

The translation of the title for this chapter is 'On The Causes and Signs of Diseases of Long Duration' - A work written by Aretaeus of Cappadocia in the 2nd century AD.

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	2. Nix, Ex Vena, Cucurri

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 2

2004

 _N_ _ix, Ex Vena, Cucurri_ _._

 _ **Warning: Drug use**_

Sherlock forced his aching, sore eyes open. His limbs felt heavy as lead, as if it would take years to lift them an inch off the floor. His dirty room slowly swam into sharp focus, as did the pain in his body and head. He was lying splayed across the sofa, head on the armrest, one arm hanging down, the back of his hand touching the carpet. His skin felt as if it was prickling. He swung his gaze around the room of his little flat. The coffee table in front of him was scattered with scales and science equipment. A small bunsen burner attached to a little gas canister burned a merry yellow. A large bottle of purified water sat on the carpet.

' _Ah yes, I had to buy.'_

He willed his mind to work, to move _,_ to _start._ He lifted his leaden limbs and gingerly sat up, cradling his head in his hands. He forced down the sudden rise of nausea. The comedown from buying was always much worse. Of course, the purity of such drugs was never much higher than 50%, and though Sherlock was reluctant to put anything in his body that he did not know the full chemical makeup, by the time he was forced to buy from a dealer his cravings were so strong it was a colossal effort just to make the solution and inject it. The hits weren't good, either.

He ran cold fingers through his black curls, breathing through the sick feeling, before gently rising and turning off the burner. He could feel the bruise in the crook of his elbow, lancing up his arm from the injection site each time he moved. A glance out of the window told him it was late morning. _'Still time to go to the lab'_ he thought, stepping out of the little lounge and into his bathroom.

30 minutes later Sherlock stepped from the cab outside St Bartholomew's Hospital, and made his way to the labs on the third floor. He was currently working on synthesising a new antidote to the digitalis toxin which wouldn't have such severe side effects. The hospital would pay him for his time and for the formula. It also guaranteed him access to the labs. Sherlock knew he would get much more if he sold the formula directly to a drugs company, but the bureaucracy and suits bored him, and he wasn't interested in huge monetary gain. He hung up his coat and settled in front of a microscope, loading up the cultures he had prepared and left to incubate onto slides. He soon sank down into the comfortable routine of testing and re-testing.

The sound of a mug hitting the tabletop jumped Sherlock from his reverie of slides and molecular structures. He flicked his head up, spotting the shy woman in the lab coat standing next to him. "I made you some tea," she stammered, a nervous smile ghosting her lips. It vanished when she made eye contact with him. "Are you okay? You're so pale."

Sherlock didn't answer and lifted the mug to his lips, however he soon realised he was going to have to speak to make her go away when she didn't make any move to leave. "I'm fine. Thanks for the tea," he said, looking back into his microscope.

"Um, do you want any help? You are working on something similar to me at the moment, so-"

Sherlock cut across her. "No thank you." He glanced up at her, his eyes searching. "What's your name?"

"Molly."

"You give me tea every time we are both in the Labs. Why?"

"U-um, because you work so hard and you never take a break."

"But you don't know anything about me and you have no obligation to do so."

"I want to."

Sherlock studied at her for a moment. "Why?"

"Um, because it's a nice thing to do?" Molly could see the lack of comprehension behind his bright, analytical eyes. She decided to change tact. "I don't want you to get dehydrated."

"Oh. Well you should probably have a cup too then. You have a headache coming on."

Molly stammered. "I- I'm sorry?"

"Your cheeks are slightly reddened and your eyes are bloodshot. You've been looking down a microscope too long. Take a break."

"Oh… well, you've been working for a long while too now, so do you want to j-"

"No."

Sherlock turned back to his work, leaving Molly standing alone next to him. She turned awkwardly away, realising their conversation had been swiftly ended. "Right then," she said quietly to herself as she left the lab, pulling her hair down and refilling the kettle when she entered the empty staff kitchen.

Sherlock's mind had began to wander in the last few hours. He found it increasingly difficult to focus on his work, and the tremors in his hands had started up again. He grimaced down at his transport, angry that his body would fail him so, would be so dependent on a foreign chemical to function. He knew he was close to a solution, but his body had once again started the withdrawal timer. He cast his eyes around the lab, spotting Molly in the far corner, deep in her own projects. He could wait, continue to work until he couldn't hold the cultures any more, or he could leave now. Sherlock decided on the latter.

He packed up his work, placed his new petri dishes in the incubator, and swiftly left the lab, ignoring the sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades. His goal was the Opthalmology labs on the floor above, but as he currently had no reason to be up there, it would take a little more planning. Making a beeline for the staff cloakroom, he scanned the lockers, spotting one (obviously) owned by an Ophthalmologist, before picking the lock and helping himself to the lab coat and ID card stashed inside. All that was left was to act. He strode confidently to the lift, pressing the call button and smiling at the others already inside as the doors slid open. One floor up, and he was out, taking his well trodden path to the chemical store room down the corridor. The lock yielded quickly to his nimble fingers. Sherlock scanned the racks, before spotting what he needed: a small collection of vials in a glass cupboard. _'The hospital should really consider investing in better security measures,'_ Sherlock mused as he broke in. _'I do wonder sometimes if this is too easy.'_ His treasure gained, he smoothly locked up again, replaced the lab coat and ID, and left the hospital.

His withdrawal began to come to a head in the taxi journey back to his flat. His limbs trembled, his body was on fire but he was shivering. He could feel the sweat running down his back and chest. The craving was getting more unbearable by the second, and Sherlock could only look with hatred at the traffic jam surrounding the vehicle. He turned to the driver, who was staring at him in the rear view mirror. "I'm getting out here."

"Wait, are you sure? You look like you need to go to a hospital mate."

"No, I'm getting out."

Sherlock shoved a fiver and a few pound coins at the driver and stepped out of the car, willing his trembling legs to hold him as he weaved through the near stationary traffic to the pavement. The path wasn't much better; people sped in every direction, harried businessmen, families and students weaved among each other, while tourists stood staring at maps, islands in the rushing river of London. Sherlock quickly stepped off the main road, preferring the much quieter back streets to get around. He aimed for the closest pharmacy he knew of that wouldn't ask questions.

The hustle of London quietened as he pushed open the heavy doors to the little chemist. Shelves nearly reaching the ceiling were piled with everything from children's hairbands to sanitary towels, and behind the desk were drawers and drawers full of prescription drugs. A small Greek man sat behind the desk, reading the morning's _Metro._ Sherlock approached the man, doing his best to hide his tremors and laboured breathing, and the man looked up. From his wry smile, Sherlock knew the man had already worked out what he was going to ask for, but allowed him to do it anyway. "Diabetic syringes, please. 100 unit." The Greek man nodded once and reached under the counter for a box of sterile syringes, which he scanned into the till and handed to Sherlock.

"Anything else?" he asked in his thick accent.

Sherlock just gave him a look, and the man chuckled darkly. "£12, sir."

Shooting up was the easy bit. Sherlock simply had to find a spot in which to do it away from prying eyes. Simple. He sat himself on a crate in an alleyway behind a restaurant, and his shaking fingers opened the box of syringes. He held one of the packets in his mouth as he fished around in his coat for the vial of 7% Cocaine Hydrochloride he'd stolen from the hospital. He could feel a rush of anticipation and relief shoot through his body as he unscrewed the lid, opened the needle and drew it up into the barrel. He flicked the syringe to remove any bubbles and once again placed it in his teeth while he took off his belt to act as a makeshift tourniquet to raise a good vein. He pushed up his shirt sleeve. Slapping his arm, he took the syringe, willed his hands to stop shaking, and pressed it into his arm, pushing down the plunger a little before drawing back to ensure he had hit the centre of the vein. The blood in the barrel was a shocking contrast to the clear liquid in the syringe.

Sherlock pushed the plunger all the way down.

The building rush was immense. Colours brightened to sugary levels. His heart beat a Beethoven rhythm, and sounds bit his ears. He could see everything, hear everything, do _anything_. Solve any problem he was thrown. Take down any foe. He rejoined the bustling, neon luminescent throng of Regent Street, the sounds of cars, people and conversations like acid rain on his skin. His thoughts rang clear in his head. His mind was a finely sharpened spear.

He felt his phone buzz. His spider fingers reached into his pocket. Mycroft's name flashed jewel bright on the screen, the black letters like ink on snow. His thumb found the answer button and he held the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Brother dear."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, and London pushed through Sherlock's bubble, piercing his eyes like tiny needles of dry grass. Mycroft finally spoke. "You're high."

"Well observed. Is that a problem?"

"As always, Sherlock, it is most definitely a problem."

"Then why do you always allow it to happen, Mycroft?"

"Because you adamantly reject everything I try to do to help, Sherlock."

"Thats because it is none of your business, nor interest what I do with my funds and time, Mycroft."

"I would agree wholeheartedly, until it begins to impede on your health, Sherlock."

"It's a bit late for that, don't you think?" Sherlock's cackle was hoarse and dry in his throat. He stepped out of the human river and onto a back street, where the outward stimulus was a little less jarring on his hyper observant senses. His feet tracked the pavement. He cut through the air. Mycroft's words filtered through the heady London rush again.

"Where are you?"

"Where I always am."

"Don't be obtuse, Sherlock. I'll send a car to your location to drop you off at your flat."

"And why do you think I want that?"

"Because when you crash, which you will, you will crash hard, Sherlock. And I don't want another of last month's fiasco."

Sherlock could feel shards of glassy rage slowly press themselves into his skin. "Why won't you just leave me alone? I want to be alone. I work alone. I think alone. _I act alone_."

"Because you can't seem to prove you can look after yourself, Sherlock. Who would be there to pick you up from wherever you've crashed? Who would be there to make sure you've eaten in the past two days? _Who would be there to drag you to A &E when they visit and find you dribbling and twitching into the carpet?" _

Sherlock hung up the phone. His rage was deep and full now, blossoming through his body like a white hot flower. He was breathing heavily, his heart a frantic staccato in his chest. _'Calm down.'_ He told himself, attempting to control his angry breaths. He stepped back and slid down the cool brick wall behind him onto the paving stones under his feet. His watch told him he'd injected 20 minutes ago, and Sherlock could feel himself coming down.

He waited for his heart rate to drop to a more acceptable level, before standing, stepping out onto the pavement, and hailing a cab.

* * *

The translation for this chapter: Snow, Vein, Rush.

The more I read up on the highs, lows, and effects of cocaine, the more I am horrified that it is used so freely.  
Please be extremely careful when using any drugs, especially ones that are highly addictive and don't have a safe dose, like cocaine.

Thank you for reading! Reviews make me happy.  
Update soon :)


	3. Phthiein

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 3

2015

 _Phthiein_

Sherlock tried to stifle another cough as he inspected the body of another suspected victim of the person that Scotland Yard had grimly nicknamed 'The Wandsworth Cannibal'. Failing, he turned his head away from the mess of human in front of him and coughed deeply into his hand. Lestrade walked over to him with a worried expression. "Sherlock, mate, that cough sounds nasty."

Sherlock simply chose to ignore him, and crouched down next to the victim. "Female, early twenties. Daughter of a Scottish loyalist. She earns a bit of money on the side as a private escort. She went clubbing last night" Sherlock lifted her wrist and turned it over, "but… didn't make it home. Travelled to London to study…" he leaned in closer to her face. "Radiography at St George's. She travelled on the tube after she came out from the club; I suspect the District and Circle Line based on the thickness of brake dust on her face and hands. Where is her bag and coat? She should have an Oyster card on her which you can trace."

Lestrade nodded, writing down the information. "We've got a bag. That's being looked into at the Yard." He waited for Sherlock to finish another long, deep bout of coughing, trying to hide his discomfort and worry. "There wasn't a coat, though."

"She was definitely wearing one," he said a little breathlessly, pointing out stray fibres of wool on the remnants of her clothes, "but she may have simply left it somewhere. People become forgetful under the influence of alcohol. The importance balances on whether she was wearing it on the Underground or not. I need you to check CCTV."

Lestrade nodded his assent. "Anything else?"

"Yes. She's a bulimia sufferer. Links in with the other victims."

"But they were both drug addicts."

"It's not the substance, it's the addict status that is significant. The others were addicted to putting things into their bodies; this one was addicted to preventing it. In other words, our killer uses these pressure points to influence their victims, which suggests either the victims all know our culprit, or they are smarter than we have so far given them credit for."

Sherlock pushed his mind away from flashbacks of Magnussen and stood. He looked to Lestrade before making to leave, retying his scarf. "I need the details I have asked for as soon as possible, please. If there's another victim, which I am in no doubt there will be, notify me immediately. I've got work to do in the meantime."

Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder before he could go. "Sherlock, you look ill. Are you sure you're not coming down with something? I think it'd be a good idea to have a res-"

"I'm fine, Lestrade. I'm not unwell enough to have to pull from the case at hand."

"Sherlock, remember that incident a few years back in Greenwich when you almost fainted on top of the corpse?" The corner of Lestrade's mouth quirked when Sherlock resolutely looked away from the policeman, an indignant expression on his face. "Well, I do. Andersson had to run in and catch you. It turned out you'd caught the flu, yeah?"

"Why are you mentioning this?"

"Because I know you wouldn't pull from a case unless you physically couldn't move, and even then you'd somehow end up solving it."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a long moment. "I'm fine."

Lestrade let his hand fall from the sleuth's shoulder, and the detective walked away without a second glance. Lestrade tried to ignore the sounds of a deep, rattling cough echo through the building as the man left.

Sherlock hailed a cab and allowed himself to sink a little into the backrest as the taxi took him to the labs. If he was to be honest to himself, he wasn't feeling fantastic, and hadn't in a few days. He'd woken up suddenly, his body clammy with cold sweat, a dream clinging to the corners of his half awake state.

 _Slick, black oil drips from his veins; glutinous, sticky. He watches it as it runs down his white hands, his long, pianists fingers, his cleanly cut glassy fingernails. Viscose. It drips onto the floor, fleshy splatters on a high polished surface. His eyes follow the pitch, watch as it burns and corrodes deeper below him, bubbling, hissing, melting all it touches. He feels his body lurch; he knows what is to come. The acid bite thickness bears upon him until he can see little else but the thinning surface as it gives way, crumbles, bends, breaks, and he is plunged down down, blackness inside him. His lungs fill with writer's ink, his eyes weep tar as he falls, his breath is coal. His body hits water with a sharp_ slap _, he is suspended for a moment, held on the plane between two deaths, and he sinks, cold eating away at him, the thick oil from his veins rising in perfect circles as he is drawn irrevocably into the ice filled maw of a man with a soul darker than all._

He hadn't had such a dream in a long time. Sherlock allowed himself a moment of analysis, his quick mind calculating possibilities as to why he had dreamt such. ' _Perhaps… no. It's just a minor temperature and a cough.'_ He berated himself, then averted his mind back to more important things: tracing the identity of The Wandsworth Cannibal.

* * *

John's eyes wandered to the ceiling. He studied the large air vent above him, following the wide tube which snaked away from him to another end of the shop.

"What about this one?"

He turned towards his wife, who was standing next to a wooden cot, her hand on the banister.

"Um, yeah! Looks good."

Mary looked nonplussed. "You've said the same about the last three we looked at."

John shrugged. "I'm just not sure I see the point of us browsing so much. It's a small bed with four sides. As long as it does the job, why worry about what it looks like so much?"

"Because I want our daughter to grow up surrounded by beautiful things- oh, sod it. I don't really understand what all the fuss is about either. I'm only really doing it so I have something to talk about with the women at the ante-natal classes. I'd honestly get more intellectual stimulus talking to a sugar cube."

John couldn't help but smirk. "Well then, let's get this one," he gestured to the cot they were standing next to, "and then pretend we spent hours searching for the perfect one to match the curtains, while really going for some lunch."

"That," she said, walking over to him and taking his hand, "sounds like a plan."

The couple caught the eye of a sales assistant, bought a cot and arranged for it to be delivered. After John pocketed the receipt, the two walked arm in arm towards the escalator up to the top floor. They walked towards the food counter, joined the queue, and took a tray from the pile. A lady in a hair net smiled at them. "What can I get for you?"

Mary looked to John. "What would you like?" She asked.

"Um, I'll have the cottage pie, a cup of English Breakfast and a glass of tap water please." He said.

"And I'll have an egg and cress sandwich and a cup of the same." Mary added.

The woman nodded, handing the food across the counter, before filing the teapots and placing them on their trays when they reached the till. The couple found a table overlooking the interior of the department store, and sat down. As Mary stirred her tea, she looked across to her husband. He was gazing absently down at the other levels of the shop, watching people of various ages browsing everything from gloves to chandeliers. He jumped as she spoke. "You're worried."

"Worried?"

"About Sherlock." Mary could see she had hit the nail on the head when John's expression sagged. He dipped a fork into his pie, drawing the mashed potato back to release a puff of steam.

"I worry about him all the time."

"Yes, but now you have even more reason because he's ill."

"That cough sounded bad last time we saw him, and because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes he'll wait until its full blown pneumonia before even admitting he might be a little bit under the weather."

"Well," Mary said, lifting the sandwich to her mouth, "intervene. Go and see him. Take your bag and go. It's simple really."

John pondered for a moment, before smiling. "I suppose it is. Alright. I'll text him and arrange to meet him."

"Nah, just turn up. Then he won't have the chance to hide his symptoms." John didn't miss the evil gleam flashing through his wife's eyes. "I won't come," she said. "I don't want you nagging to me too."

John looked affronted. "I don't nag! I just… repeat myself a lot." Mary chuckled at him and John smirked. "Well, maybe I nag Sherlock. But he doesn't half deserve it. He went to a gang boss' party last month with the host's beloved daughter for a case, dumped her almost immediately, and then wondered why there were 3 members of the Yazuka waiting for him when he got home."

"Well we know who else he's done that with."

John looked up from his food. "Do you still speak to Janine?"

"Occasionally. Her cottage is lovely. She sent me some pictures."

There was a slight lull in the conversation as the two remembered the case which had revealed Mary's lie, and nearly driven them apart.

 _These are prepared words, Mary._ _Your past is your business, but your future is my privilege._

John broke the silence. "What are you up to tomorrow?"

"Nothing planned. You know, maternity leave is really boring."

John smiled. "Not long, now. Enjoy it while it lasts. I'll admit I'm not looking forward to looking after two babies at the same time - one newborn, and one severely overgrown." He smiled as Mary laughed. 'I'd rather be at home watching Jeremy Kyle and Flog It with you than telling patient after patient I can't give them anything for their colds."

"I should invite Sherlock over to watch with me sometimes when he's not on a case. I bet he'd be full of fun deductions."

John shook his head. "You don't even know the half of it. He practically shouts at the telly."

Mary's eyes lit up. "Brilliant! Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

John chuckled. "Because you've never been bored enough before. Have you finished?" He stood when she nodded. "Come on, let's go home. I want to visit Sherlock this evening. I think I'll take your advice and just turn up."

* * *

The early evening light cast a warm yellow glow across the streets of London, glancing off the tarmac and drawing heavy shadows from the trees and buildings. A wind had developed, and was pushing through streets, whipping clothes, hair, and stacks of the _Evening Standard_. Rush hour was in full swing. People filed into heaving tube stations, before joining the large crowds waiting at the top of temporarily closed escalators. Rustling newspapers and low chatter rippled through the tunnels, adding to the screeching crescendo of trains pulling into crammed platforms.

Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street. His body ached from the day, and his diaphragm hurt from the deep coughs he had been unable to force down. Lestrade had informed him after he'd arrived at St Barts that the latest victim had indeed been wearing her coat when she'd travelled on the District and Circle, and was still wearing it at Wandsworth Station. The case had suddenly become boring - practically _textbook,_ and Sherlock had lost interest. A text was all that was needed.

 _Interview her flatmate again. Mention the coat. SH._

He had abandoned the current case related experiment and continued with some of his own at St Barts - most notably, the one concerning the Wethers in his fridge. Though intriguing, the results had produced little more than what he had expected. ' _God, I wish I could smoke,'_ he thought, ascending the steps to his flat and shedding his coat. He pulled open the fridge and eyed the animal, before turning towards the stairs. "Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, waiting for the responding sounds of his Landlady.

Mrs Hudson stepped into the kitchen, spotting Sherlock standing at the fridge, idly holding the door open. He smiled briefly as she came closer. "Do you have any bin bags?" He said, gesturing towards the contents.

The long suffering Landlady peered into the fridge. "Oh my goodness!" Her hand flew to her mouth. "Sherlock! You've gone too far this time! What are you doing to my poor fridge?"

"Chilling a wethers, evidently. But I'm finished with it, so I need bin bags."

Mrs Hudson gawped between the ram and the detective for a moment, before sighing, defeated. "Yes, I'll bring up a roll. But just this once, mind. I'm not your housekeeper." She made for the stairs, but turned back at the sound of deep, chesty coughing. Sherlock was hunched over, one hand on his torso, another over his mouth as he coughed, his body jerking with the force. She took a step towards him. "Sher-"

Sherlock had lifted his hand from his chest. He waved her away, forcing out a strangled "bin bags," between coughs, before turning his back to her. She reluctantly descended the stairs, the echoes of Sherlock's deep coughs following after, and retrieved the roll from under the sink. By the time she had reached Sherlock again, his coughing had stopped, and he was sitting at the kitchen table.

She handed the bags to him, shutting the fridge door. "You look pale, and that cough is much worse. Are you sure you're alright?"

He sat up, defiantly. "I'm fine."

"Does John know?"

"Know what?"

Mrs Hudson sighed at him. "I'm not going to sit around listening to you coughing up your lungs much longer. If you don't call John soon, I will."

Sherlock sighed. He stood, strode into the living room, and dropped unceremoniously onto the sofa, gangly limbs askew.

"I'll make you a cup of tea, dear." The only reply the landlady received was a languid wave of his long hand. She put the kettle on.

* * *

The translation for this chapter is an archaic term used when someone is wasting away due to illness.

Has anyone guessed the illness yet? Shoot, and I'll reply with whether you got it correct :)  
Sorry for the long delay. A holiday got in the way.

Thanks for reading!

I feed off reviews. They inspire me to write, so reviews = faster updates!


	4. Ego sum

**Captain of All These Men of Death**

 **Chapter 4**

2004

 _Ego sum_

Mycroft watched as his younger brother sat before him, cleaning under his nails almost obsessively. He studied him, deducing, reading, but no new information came, and most certainly none that he would have wanted to find.

His brother was thin, even thinner than usual. He was pale, and bruises framed his eyes. He was unable to stop fidgeting, one moment tapping his foot, and the next tugging at his dull hair. Mycroft was sure that if Sherlock were to roll up his sleeves and reveal his elbows, there would be pronounced bruising. He suspected there would be more bruises elsewhere on his body as well. He could clearly see Sherlock was experiencing withdrawal, but attempting to hide it from his brother. Mycroft felt that allowing him this lie would, in this case, be the right thing to do.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" Mycroft drawled in his usual, sugar-dipped sarcasm.

Sherlock's head darted up. "Yes of course. Please, continue."

Mycroft could see the sheen of sweat on his brother's face. He raised an eyebrow. "Our sources confirm that this 'M' character already has strong links to the governments of various shady countries, and is building this network from London." Looking down at a list of names, he continued. "Judging by the names on this list, their goals are not limited to any single endeavour. This person has links to everything from nuclear warheads to prostitution." He looked at his brother. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was staring at the wall, both fists clenched on his lap, feet tapping. "Nuclear warheads and prostitution. I'm listening, brother." He babbled out, a little breathless.

Mycroft sighed. "My request is simple. Gather information on 'M', alright Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes had taken on a glassy tone, and it seemed to Mycroft that his brother was staring _through_ him, rather than at him. Sherlock's incessant fidgeting had also stilled. Mycroft's eyes widened as he watched his brother begin to gently sway, before falling forward. The young sleuth's brother shot up, flinging his arms over the desk to prevent his fall. He pushed Sherlock gently back into his seat. Mycroft stood and hurried around the desk. He sat on the edge and leaned over him. "Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly turned towards the sound, unfocussed and worryingly vacant. "Yes?"

"Sherlock, listen to me." Mycroft placed his hand on the back of the man's neck to try and ground him. His skin was hot and clammy. "Sherlock."

"What?"

"Tell me what's going on. When did you last eat, or sleep?"

At these words, Sherlock seemed to come to himself. "I'm fine" he growled, slapping Mycroft's hand away. He made to stand, but his legs crumpled underneath him. Mycroft semi-caught him and lowered him more gently back to the chair.

"Sherlock! Tell me what is wrong."

"You know what's wrong, brother mine."

"Sherlock, I can help you fix this."

"I don't need _fixing_!" Sherlock nearly shouted, forcing himself up to full height on shaky legs. "For the last time, _leave me alone_!"

Mycroft sighed deeply, allowing his temper to calm. "Alright, alright. But please, Sherlock. _Sit down before you fall down_."

Sherlock gently lowered himself down as Mycroft's assistant Anthea walked into the room holding a tray with 2 cups of tea and a sandwich. Mycroft could feel Sherlock's piercing glare through her body as she bent between the two to place it before him.

"I won't ask you to do anything else, but please, before you leave, eat." Mycroft said as she left the room again.

Sherlock shot death stares at his brother, attempting to burn a hole in his head. When it didn't succeed, he begrudgingly reached for the sandwich. If he were to admit to himself, he felt terrible - sick, weak, and slow. He hadn't slept in his own bed last night, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something that could be considered a meal. Of course, he would never share this information with Mycroft.

Oh, how he _ached_ for a hit. His veins burned, his skin screamed, his joints clattered against each other. His head felt as if it would rip itself apart. Each breath was corrosive on his lungs. It was taking all his strength to hide these overwhelming symptoms from his brother, and he was fully aware he wasn't managing it completely. Each bite of his sandwich felt like chewing on a kitchen sponge.

Mycroft watched him eat and drink over the rim of his own cup of tea. Some colour had returned to Sherlock's cheeks by the time he had finished, however the heavy glower had not diminished. As soon as he finished, he stood, Mycroft joining him. He was pleased, at least, that this time he did not need to catch his little brother. He watched as Sherlock shrugged on his long coat, turned on his heel and left the room. He didn't expect a goodbye, and he did not receive one.

* * *

Sherlock stepped out onto the chilly street. The wind was strong today, whipping his black hair into a frenzy as he set off down the road. He didn't bother hiding the shaking of his limbs now he was away from the disapproving eye of his brother. As he turned onto a busier street, he could feel the stares of others around him. He probably looked terrible. Haggard, pale, thin and shaking - an addict in need of a fix. He fished around in his pocket for his Oyster card as he descended the stairs into Bond Street station. He stepped onto the train and hunched down into a seat in a corner, resolutely ignoring the quiet gaze of the other passengers.

The train pulled into Bethnal Green, and Sherlock willed his aching transport to pull him home. By the time he reached his door, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely push the key into the lock. The door opened and he practically fell inside, stumbling to the living room and flopping onto the sofa. His eyes met with the small bottle of 7% on his coffee table and the open box of syringes next to it. As he made to reach for it, something in his head stopped him.

' _No. It_ _'_ _s just transport. The mind can overcome all obstacles, especially something as trivial as a physical dependency._ '

Instead, Sherlock reached for the radio. He flicked it on, and lay back, willing his body to stop shaking.

" _for another 6 years. The Minister for Education has insisted this is not the case, and has stated to the BBC that his plans to roll out Academy status to failing schools will be implemented much more quickly._

 _Liam Arnolds, the suspect killer of his 6 year old niece, Joannah Arnolds, was convicted of murder today in Guildford Crown Court, Surrey. Joannah was found by police in a copse of trees a mile from her home after a week long search last April. Mr Arnolds received a life sentence._

 _Troops in Afghanistan today successfully secured a village in the Baghran district of Helmand Province which was being used by the Taliban as a weapons store. The weapons were seized and destroyed in a controlled environment. The ground team was assisted by air troops from a nearby RAF airbase._

 _Newfound evidence has shone a light on the potential dangers of articulated buses, or 'bendy buses' being used across the capital. The number of fires…"_

The white hot pain raging through Sherlock's veins was so intense he was starting to lose sense of his surroundings. He could no longer feel his hands, and he was frozen, despite feeling a thick layer of sweat on his brow. He struggled to push himself up, shaking hands reaching for a syringe from the box and the vial of clear liquid. He pulled the liquid into the syringe, measuring the entire unit, before holding the syringe in his teeth and grabbed a tourniquet from the table. He quickly brought up a vein in his bruised elbow, not even flinching as he pushed in, drew back, and plunged the entire unit into his body. He flung the syringe across the table as he gently released the tourniquet from his arm, the rush freeing him from his pain like a soft kiss.

He allowed himself to bask in the diamond biting glow for a moment, listening to his fast heartbeat, his elevated breath, his crashing, ocean-storm thoughts, before standing, flinging on his coat, and bolting from the flat. He was back, strong, and ready to take chess-game, power-play London, his cog-quick mind already theorising the possible identity of 'M'.

The game was, most certainly, on. And Sherlock had the winning strategy.

* * *

The translation for this chapter: I am.

Sorry for both the update and the length of this chapter. Some stuff has been happening recently.

Please do bear with me :)

I will finish this story, I promise!

Reviews make me happy. They really do. And I need a bit of happy at the moment.

Note: Congratulations to the reviewer who successfully guessed the illness!

You know who you are ;P


	5. Phuma

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 5

2015

 _P_ _h_ _û_ _ma_

John's footfalls on the 221B stairs were comforting to his ears in a way. He stopped halfway up when Mrs Hudson came out to meet him.

"John! I thought that might have been you. How are you, dear? How's Mary?"

"Ah, hello Mrs Hudson. We're both fine, thanks. You?"

"Still muddling along. Did Sherlock text you?"

"No… why?"

"Oh, well his cough isn't getting better."

John's face flashed with determination. "Right. I'll talk to you soon, alright?"

Mrs Hudson smiled as John made the rest of his way up the stairs. John hung his coat up on the rack, stepping into the living room. "Sherlock?"

What met his gaze wasn't an entirely unusual sight, but it wasn't one John had been expecting. The flat was eerily silent, the evening light casting squares onto the rug from the window. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, facing the wall, his legs tucked close to him. He was fast asleep, his silken shirt twisted around his chest, a half drunk cup of tea on the coffee table next to him. He smirked at the man as he approached, before gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock shifted, a confused little grunt emanating from him as he opened his eyes and looked at John. "John?"

"Evening."

John stepped back, allowing Sherlock to sit up. He ran his hand through his hair as he blinked away the sleep. "I don't remember texting you." He said, still a little groggy.

"That's because you didn't."

"Then how did you know I would be here?"

"I took a chance," John said, shrugging. "You alright? Don't often catch you sleeping here… in fact, I don't often catch you sleeping."

Sherlock attempted to reply, but instead brought on a coughing fit, forcing his shoulders forward as he hunched over the fist pressed to his chest. When, finally, the last cough had died away, he found John holding a glass of water. He took it, inwardly grateful.

John sat on the coffee table opposite him. "How long have you been coughing like that?" Sherlock waved the question away, but John was having none of it. "Sherlock. Answer me, please."

"Maybe a week. Possibly a bit more."

John hadn't missed the fact that Sherlock was breathless. He reached across to him, and placed the back of his hand against the sleuth's head, much to Sherlock's chagrin. "You're a bit hot," John said, worry in his tone now.

"It's just a bit of a cold, John. I'll take some ibuprofen."

"I don't know. I'd prefer to have a listen to your chest."

Sherlock gave John a withering look, but John wasn't deterred. "Look, it'll only take a moment. I've got my backpack in my car. I'll get it." Before Sherlock could protest any further, he had left the living room. Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa with a humph, frustrated.

Soon enough, John had returned with his backpack full of medical equipment. He unzipped the main compartment and pulled out a stethoscope and a pulse oxygen monitor. Clipping the monitor to Sherlock's finger, he hung the stethoscope around his neck. He warmed the end against his shirt. "Come on, then. Lift your shirt up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and untucked his shirt, pulling it up. John placed the stethoscope on his chest, ignoring Sherlock's flinch. "Deep breath in… and out." He moved the stethoscope around Sherlock's slender chest, instructing him when to breathe, before moving on to his back and doing the same, glancing at the pulse-ox monitor each time Sherlock took a breath. Unsurprisingly for John, Sherlock's repeated deep breathing caused a coughing fit. He didn't like what he heard and saw.

"Sherlock, your chest sounds terrible, and your oxygen saturation is low."

"Then just prescribe me some penicillin and be done with it."

"No… I think I need to look more into it. Your chest is crackling. Have you had a temperature or night sweats?"

"…Both."

At these words John stuck an electric thermometer into Sherlock's mouth. "Hold that under your tongue." He didn't give Sherlock any chance to protest. The thermometer beeped and John turned the read to face him. John's eyebrows furrowed. "I want you to come into the surgery tomorrow morning at 7:30. And no, I won't take any excuses."

Sherlock visibly deflated, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "I'm busy, John! I'm working on a pressing case for my brother and I doubt he'd be pleased if I lef-"

He was quickly cut off by John. "Sherlock, either you come in to surgery tomorrow, or I will sedate you and drag you there myself." John's expression belied the weight of his threat.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Whatever you want, John."

John smiled, passing back the water Sherlock had been drinking earlier. "Drink that. I'll boil the kettle. Have you had any tea yet?" He left the living room and opened the fridge.

"I'm not hungry."

"Alright then, I'll make some pasta for us. Do you want tomato and basil sauce?" Sherlock could hear John pulling jars from the cupboards. "Or green pesto?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Pesto it is."

Sherlock smirked and sat back into the sofa. John reappeared with two cups of tea and settled down next to his friend. "I see the ram has gone."

"Wethers, John. I disposed of it earlier today."

"So… there's half a sheep in Mrs Hudson's big bin?"

"It's a wethers. And yes."

"Did you find anything interesting in your experiments?"

"Not particularly. Just passing time really. I wasn't expecting much."

The oven timer began beeping at that moment and John left to finish preparing their meal. Sherlock stood, suppressing coughs, and joined him in the kitchen, watching him stir the sauce through the pasta and divide it into two bowls. "What's Mary doing?"

"Oh, she went to have dinner with a friend."

The two sat down at the table. Sherlock soon realised that John wasn't going to begin eating until Sherlock picked up his fork. _'Alright, okay.'_ He thought, starting his meal. Just the look of the food made his stomach turn, but he didn't want to admit to John just how unwell he really felt.

John smiled as Sherlock began to eat. He was fully aware his friend was feeling sick, but it was important to try and regulate his diet as much as possible when he was ill. He hoped for Sherlock's sake he would turn up at the surgery tomorrow. He was fully prepared to slip the sleuth a prescription grade sleeping tablet and get Mrs Hudson to help bundle him into his car.

When the two finished, Sherlock stood and began to gather the plates. He didn't get too far, however. He suddenly found himself coughing, one hand on the table to steady himself as he hacked and coughed. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs between each cough, but his body would not stop spasming, and he felt himself becoming increasingly light headed and tired. Gentle hands met his shoulder and back and guided him into a chair, and John kneeled in front of him, a glass of warm water ready for when his coughing abated.

The deeply concerned look that met Sherlock's eyes when he finally calmed made him look away.

"Sherlock, why did you let it get this bad?"

"I'm sorry, John."

BR BR BR

John stepped out of his car and entered the surgery. He stopped for a chat with the secretaries at the front desk, before unlocking his office and setting up for the day. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. _'7:20. He'd better bloody turn up.'_

John's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he was pleased to see it was Sherlock.

 _I'm outside. The door is locked. SH_

John jumped up and hurried to the front to let in his friend. He unlocked it and pulled the door open, stepping aside to let him in. "Morning," John said, studying his friend's pallid face. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine."

"No you're not. How are you feeling? Did you sleep alright?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "I've felt better. Can we get on please? I've got work to do."

"Yes, alright. Come on then."

John led Sherlock to his office and sat him down in the chair next to his desk, Sherlock studying the room as he gathered all the equipment he needed. As he held the head of his stethoscope for a moment to warm it, Sherlock piped up.

"This room is not adequate for optimal assessment of patients."

"I've had worse before."

"It's too dark."

"That's because it's a room in an Urgent Care centre with too many patients and not enough floor space. Now, breathe in… and, out…"

John could still hear that crackling sound in both of his lungs. He already had a cup of water ready for Sherlock when he inevitably started coughing. He kept an eye on the pulse oxygen score, watching it steadily drop as he coughed, and then slowly climb again. He wasn't pleased when the reading stabilised at 80 percent. He took Sherlock's blood pressure and temperature.

"You are obviously coughing up phlegm. What colour is it?"

"Dark yellow."

"Blood?"

"A little sometimes."

"Right." He sat back in his chair for a moment, thinking, before standing. "Come on. I'm taking an x-ray."

"No John I don-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, following John out of the room and down a few corridors. He pushed open a door and ushered Sherlock inside. "Right then." John said. "Take your coat, scarf, shirt, watch and belt off. You can leave everything else on. Do you want a gown?"

Sherlock shook his head, unbuckling his watch and shedding his clothes. He put them on a chair in the corner as John donned a lead apron. "Right then, lie down on your back, and I'll take a quick x-ray of your chest."

Sherlock lay himself down on the bed, holding in a cough and shivers as the cold air hit his hot skin. He watched John as he positioned the machine over Sherlock's exposed chest. He laid a lead sheet over Sherlock's pelvis and hips, before pressing a few buttons and the machine whirred to life. "This will only take a few seconds. I need you to hold your breath and stay very still."

John moved behind a screen, watching his friend. Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath. The machine whirred and beeped. "One more… all done."

As Sherlock got dressed again, John studied the results. The diagnosis was not good. Sherlock soon joined John around the screen to take a look at his lungs. John pointed at the picture. "Well, its obvious from the outset that you have some sort of infection, because they're cloudy, not nice and clear like a healthy lung. The problem, Sherlock, is these." He pointed out darker gaps in the white misty areas. "These cavities mean you don't just have a nasty chest infection or pneumonia."

Sherlock looked at John's face, marred with worry. "Then what is it?"

"I think you have tuberculosis."

Sherlock immediately took a step away from his friend, clapping his hand over his mouth. For a moment John was perplexed, before he realised. "Sherlock, I was an army doctor who served in Afghanistan. I've been vaccinated, don't worry. I won't catch it." He smirked as Sherlock's hand dropped to his side. "Right, I've got to take a sputum sample from your lungs. Come back to the office with me, and cough into a dish."

The withering look that Sherlock gave John lightened his spirits just a little. It didn't serve to dampen the fact, however, that his friend was in for a long, difficult ride.

BR BR BR

Claudius Galen of Pergamum in 174 AD found tubercles in the lungs and named the disease _p_ _h_ _û_ _ma_ _._ He believed it was contagious.

Thanks for staying with me so far, and a double thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter. I will try to update soon, but it may not be for a while on account of the fact I am going away.

Reviews are my bae.


	6. Materia Medica

**Captain Of All These Men Of Death**

 **Chapter 6**

2015

 _Materia Medica_

John stopped the car before getting out and walking around to Sherlock's side. He opened the door for his friend, who stepped gingerly out onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street. John eyed the sick man in front of him. He looked cold - he was slightly hunched over himself, his neck buried into his scarf. His sallow completion highlighted the dark patches under his eyes and the spots of colour high on his cheeks. The change in position set off a coughing fit. John watched as Sherlock steadied himself against the car as he hacked his lungs out.

"I'll make you a hot drink and some food when we get inside. I want you to get into bed or the sofa. I don't mind which." John said after the fit had subsided.

"I'm fine, John."

"Obviously."

Sherlock opened the front door and stepped inside, trying to hide the fact that he was shivering. He felt so cold, but his skin was hot to the touch. He probably looked just about as ill as he felt, but he would sooner spend a day working closely with Anderson than admit it. He just about managed to hobble up the stairs to his flat without John's help, before throwing himself, still fully dressed in outdoor clothes, onto the sofa. He listened to John potter about the kitchen, the sound of clinking cutlery and the roar of the kettle filling the space. His scarf felt soft around his chin.

The next thing Sherlock knew was John's hand on his arm, gently shaking him.

"Sherlock, come on mate. Wake up."

"I wasn't asleep."

"You were dribbling into your sleeve."

Sherlock glanced down, spotting a small darker patch in the wool of his coat. "Oh."

John pulled the detective up into a sitting position, before unraveling the scarf from around his neck. Sherlock lifted his arms, allowing the jacket to be removed, too. John placed a cup of herbal tea and a piece of toast in Sherlock's hand, before hanging up the clothes. Sherlock took a tentative sip of the tea.

"It's chamomile, John."

John's voice echoed from the hall. "You are on point today, Sherlock."

"Why would I want to drink something that tastes like bedsheets?"

"Drink it, or I'll take your skull back with me."

Sherlock glanced at his trusty skull on the mantelpiece, quickly weighing up the pros and cons, before taking another grumpy sip and a bite of the toast. John re-entered, holding a green prescription slip and a pen. "I'm going to get this filled. You need to sign this bit." He said, indicating the section on the prescription. Sherlock did so, handing it back to John. "Alright. I'll be back in a minute."

As soon as Sherlock heard the front door slam, he stood. Or at least, attempted to. His body, disliking the sudden change in altitude, keeled over sideways, and Sherlock found himself in a messy heap on the floor, his head narrowly missing the edge of the coffee table as he fell. The sharp intake of breath at the shock of his fall triggered another grating coughing fit, Sherlock's body unconsciously curling up on the floor as he fought for breath though the merciless spasms. The room swam unpleasantly around him when it finally abated.

' _Ah. That didn't work.'_ He thought wryly, before swinging his arm erratically around him until he found the sofa edge. He dug his fist into the leather and used his other arm to push himself shakily up into a kneel. This time, he took it slowly, allowing his body to adjust as he stood gingerly up, using the sofa for support until the last possible moment. Cursing his useless transport, Sherlock shuffled to the bedroom to retrieve a most essential item - his dressing gown. He slipped it on, already comforted by it's silken feel.

Sitting himself down on the bed, he bent down to untie his shoes, but once again found his body betraying him as his vision tunnelled. He screwed his eyes shut and removed his shoes by touch alone, then pulled off his socks and tossed them into the corner. His feet blissfully bare, he now had a choice. Either stay in his bedroom (warm, easy, soft, close, quiet, bathroom, no John) or go back to the sofa (cold, harder, noisy, no blanket, nasty tea, toast, John). Sherlock found himself, despite the downsides, coveting the sofa. His fingers buried themselves into the duvet, and as the sleuth gingerly stood, he pulled it around himself like a huge padded cape and slowly made his way back to the sofa. Wrapping himself in the duvet like a chrysalid, he sat, sipped the unpleasant tea, and watched the clouds move by through the windows, trying to ignore his sickness.

* * *

John handed the prescription to the pharmacist, a smiling woman with a heavy accent. She was pretty, and John found his eyes wandering downwards as she turned away from him and reached up to the top shelf of pills and tablets. Realising what he was doing, he internally berated himself. _'Come on, John. You're married to the woman of your dreams.'_ Still, he couldn't deny, this lady was a lovely sight. He thanked her as she handed him a bag with the pills.

"Do you know how to administer these?" She asked him politely, that sweet smile still on her face.

"Don't worry. I'm a doctor." He replied smoothly. It amused him sometimes to pull the 'doctor' card and see how the other would react. This pharmacist, unfortunately, was nonplussed. He signed the prescription form and paid.

Setting off back towards 221B, he realised he would need to test Mrs Hudson for TB too to be on the safe side, and use a lot more hand sanitiser for Mary's sake. He pushed his key into the front door of the flat and ascended the stairs, finding Sherlock dozing on the sofa, wrapped so tightly in his duvet that he looked uncannily like a walnut whip. Stifling a chuckle, John walked over to the man and placed a hand on the only visible section of his friend - his mop of curly black hair. Sherlock came to with a mumble and a sigh, his hands rising out of the top of his cocoon as he loosened it from around his body. He began to cough, long and hard. As he covered his mouth, John caught a glimpse of the man's wrists, now exposed as his shirt sleeves bunched. He frowned.

"Sherlock." John placed the prescription bag on the coffee table, before bending over the man and gently taking his wrist. "How much do you weigh?"

"10'5" He mumbled, still catching his breath.

"Are you sure? When did you last weigh yourself?"

"I don't know, John." He said, pulling his hand out of the man's grip. "Why?"

"I'll be back." John left the living room and entered the bathroom, picking up the scales and taking them back to Sherlock. He placed them down on the floor in front of the sleuth, looking expectant. Sherlock huffed bodily, shrugged off the remains of his duvet, and prepared to push himself into a standing position, but hesitated. He didn't want a repeat of last time's fiasco, especially not in front of John. That would cause no end of annoyance.

A hand appeared in his field of vision. John's hand. An offer of help. He reluctantly took it, admitting defeat. He swayed a little as he reached full height, feeling another hand place itself on his shoulder.

"Ok?" John asked.

"Fine."

Sherlock took off his gown, handing it to John, before stepping on the scales. John peered over the dial, his voice concerned. "I thought so, Sherlock. You've lost a lot of weight."

Sherlock looked down at the numbers. They read 9 stone, with the dial just between the increments of 12 and 14 pounds. "9'13…" he mumbled, a little confused. "I've lost 6 pounds?"

"It's another symptom of the TB." John said, matter of factly as he helped Sherlock back into his robe and onto the sofa. "I'm surprised I didn't see it when I listened to your chest, but then I suppose you're pretty skinny anyway. Of course you'd lose weight around your joints. You never had any excess to begin with." He eyed the man buried under the massive duvet, before picking up the prescription bag again. "In here are 2 different drugs - rifampicin and isoniazid. I want you to take 1 tablet each daily after a meal. Seeing as you just had some toast, you can have the first dosage now." John pushed two pills from their respective blisters and handed them to Sherlock, before fetching him some water. He watched as Sherlock took them, before kneeling down in front of his friend. "Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Please be thorough with these. Don't skip days, and don't use them in experiments. If you don't take these religiously, you can massively increase your chances of developing drug resistant TB. And trust me when I say, you don't want that. Alright?" John watched as Sherlock nodded. "This stuff really affects your liver, so no alcohol at all, and don't take paracetamol. Ok?"

"Yes, alright John."

"Good. Unfortunately I have to go to work. I'll pop by this afternoon to check on you."

"You don't ne-"

"See you later, Sherlock." John said as he stood, cutting the ailing sleuth off. He left the living room and descended the stairs. Just before he left, he tapped a knuckle on the front door of 221A. Mrs Hudson, quick as ever, opened the door.

"John! How nice to see you dear. Come in, come in!"

"Ah, sorry Mrs Hudson, no time. I have to go to work, but I need you to phone in to my surgery as soon as possible and book an emergency appointment with me today, alright?"

"What's wrong?"

John sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. He looked Mrs Hudson in the eye as he spoke. "Sherlock's got TB. Because you come within close contact with him on a regular basis, it's likely you might be carrying it too. I need to do a Mantoux test with you today."

Mrs Hudson's hand had flown to her mouth. "Oh, poor Sherlock! Is he alright?"

"He's been a lot better. Let's just say that." He paused. "Look, I know you'll want to go up and check on him but I don't want you to go near him until we have all the tests. Don't leave the house unless it's essential, don't visit anyone, and don't invite anyone over. I'm sorry."

Mrs Hudson looked dejected. "Oh, alright. I'll cancel Sissy. I'll ring the surgery now."

"Thanks Mrs Hudson. I'll see you later, okay?"

* * *

As John drove to the surgery, his mind wandering, he realised that of all the people to contract Tuberculosis, it would have been Sherlock. He fit so many of the criteria. He was male, between 25 and 44, lived in London, had a history of previous intravenous substance abuse, travelled for a long period in Eastern Europe (and god knows what he got up to there), mixed with the homeless on a regular basis, didn't look after his body, and had recently been shot, which would have massively suppressed his immuno-response. John suspected Sherlock's tuberculosis was latent - the bacterium had probably been incubating inside him for years, and just needed one more stone on the scale to tip him over the edge.

He stepped across the threshold of the urgent care centre just in time to avoid any strange looks from his colleagues. Logging on to the computer in his office, he was pleased to see Mr's Hudson's name in one of the morning slots. _'Good, at least I can find out if my worrying is for nothing,'_ he mused, as the first knock on his office door of the day signified his first patient of many.

* * *

 _'Materia Medica'_ is the Latin medical term for the body of collective knowledge on any substance known to heal.

I am sorry for my super slow update! Uni has been insanely busy and I'm pretty much always juggling 5 or more projects at once, so unfortunately updates fell to the wayside. Hopefully I'll publish a couple more over the Christmas period, but don't hold me to that :P

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favourited and followed. I send you all a bag of sparkles!


	7. Stultum

**Captain Of All These Men Of Death**

 **Chapter 7**

2004

 _S_ _tultum_

Bugs. Thousands of tiny, pincered feet covered his skin, their black bodies glinting in the light as they scuttled over him in a swarm thick enough to obscure the surface they ran across. His skin was a writhing mass of black chitin. They were in his hair, his clothes. They wormed their way into his armpits and the backs of his legs, their spiny pincers poking at him as they pushed through his fleshy mass and forced their way into every orifice. He could feel them working their way deeper between the cheeks of his buttocks. They picked at his eyelids and crept closer to his ears. Their spindly legs attempted to wriggle past the tight seal of his lips. Their fat bodies forced themselves up his nostrils. He daren't open his mouth and scream for help, because he knew they would invade him wholly if he even attempted it.

There was nobody to help him, anyway.

His breath heaved, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace. He could feel a thin film of sweat breaking out over his body under the never-ending swarms of bugs tracking his body, and he forced himself to repress the shudders of revulsion and abject fear that rolled over him in waves. Suddenly, a sharp, burning white pain shot up his arm, making his body jolt and his fists clench. He could feel a wetness spreading from the palms of his hands where he'd dug his nails into his skin so hard he'd made himself bleed. The pain increased, spreading up to his shoulder, down his chest, rolling and swirling into his lungs like a fog. He couldn't help himself. He opened his mouth to cry out, tears streaming from his tightly clenched eyes, and the black bugs swarmed inside, their feet scuttling over his tongue and pushing themselves down his throat. He gagged, clenching his teeth, and balked as he heard and felt the wet _crunch_ of their bodies crushing under the weight of his jaw. A slimy bitterness spread across his tongue and he spat and gagged, more bugs forcing their way into his mouth, underneath his tongue, pushing against his tonsils, scratching at his soft palette. They pushed themselves in lumpy masses down his throat and into his stomach, pushing at his oesophagus and writhing in the acid in his stomach cavity. They slipped into his trachea every time he took a heaving, shaky breath, squeezing themselves into every corner of his lungs until he couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow, couldn't scream.

Sherlock shot up from his bed with a strangled scream, before lurching over to the side and promptly vomiting all over the carpet. His whole body crawled, the feeling of bugs under his skin still prominent. He frantically scratched at his arms and legs, his breath heavy and strangled as he tried to get himself under control. Curling over himself, he drew his knees to his chest, taking deep, controlled breaths as he allowed the crawling sensation to subside and his heart rate to return to a more manageable level. HIs skin was clammy with sweat, and his bedsheets clung to him uncomfortably. Sherlock's nose wrinkled as the sharp tang of vomit hit his senses, and he peered over the bed to study the surprisingly large puddle gracing the floor. _'The one time I actually eat dinner…'_ he thought, exasperated, before scooting over to the other side of his bed and gingerly standing. As he crossed the room, he caught himself in the mirror, and hesitated. His skin was pale and drawn; his limbs seemed longer and ganglier than usual, and his waist and ribs were pronounced to the extent that Sherlock found it a little disturbing. White sparks danced in his vision, and Sherlock had but a moment to grab onto the edge of his chest of drawers before his knees buckled under him and he crumpled to the floor. Sherlock lowered his head to the carpet, a pained moan escaping him as he relaxed his body and succumbed to the shakes that he was constantly plagued with. As much as Sherlock wished he could just _quit_ and be free of this haunting, debilitating addiction, he just didn't have the energy any more. Some mornings it took all his energy just to open his eyes and stare at the wall.

Rolling onto his back, Sherlock eased himself up on one elbow, coughing deeply as he did so. He pushed himself against the wall, just enough to be able to see the clock on his bedside table. ' _Ah, I have to go.'_ He thought sluggishly. Making to stand, he found himself coughing again. ' _Perhaps I'm not just craving…'_ he mused, before smirking. _'Mycroft is going to be overjoyed.'_

* * *

Mycroft settled himself down into the chair that the waiter had pulled out for him. He'd made it habit to meet Sherlock in restaurants or The Diogenes club, if only to ensure his younger brother actually ate something. He'd been spiralling in the past few weeks, and they both knew it. Mycroft had even stopped giving him cases for the moment, too worried about his brother's health to risk straining him further. Eyeing his watch, he pulled out his phone and rang his forever unreliable relative. He counted the tones as he waited, pushing down the slight bubble of relief that burst inside his chest when Sherlock answered.

"Mycroft."

"Ah, Sherlock. I trust you haven't forgotten our little meeting this afternoon?"

"No. I'm on my way now. I'll be there in a moment."

The line was abruptly cut off. Mollified, Mycroft absently helped himself to a bread roll from the basket on the table, cutting it in half and spreading it thickly with butter. Just as he lifted the roll to his mouth, a thin, dark, bedraggled looking man entered the restaurant. He stuck out like a sore thumb, and Mycroft wasn't surprised at the horrified look on the poor seating attendant's face. Mycroft lifted a lazy hand to his brother, trying to maintain a nonchalant expression as he approached the table, revealing his true state of health. It was notably worse than when he'd last seen his brother a few days ago. Sherlock eased himself into the chair opposite.

"You know Mycroft, you don't have to check up on me every few days. Shockingly, I am able to feed myself."

"Evidently." Mycroft drawled, one eyebrow quirking up as he deliberately studied his brother's drawn face and dark circles under his electric blue eyes. "Sherlock, you look… ghastly."

Sherlock smirked. "For once, brother, I would agree. I seem to have developed a cold."

Mycroft let his icy demeanour drop for a moment, injecting a note of worry into his tone. "Sherlock, I don't think it's-"

"I recall we agreed not to mention my other pastimes," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft sighed. "I was going to say, if you would so kindly let me finish, that you've lost an awful lot of weight. Are you sure it is just a cold?"

Sherlock didn't deign him with a reply, instead choosing to study the menu - not without a grimace at the offerings, Mycroft noted. Picking up his bread roll again, he successfully managed to take a bite, silently analysing his brother as the service came to take their order.

* * *

Sherlock allowed Mycroft to analyse him as he ordered his food. He wasn't going to deduce anything he wanted, or liked, so why prevent it? His energy levels had been depleted hugely by the walk to the restaurant, even if it was just a couple of streets away. No doubt Mycroft had picked this establishment for that exact reason. He would usually have chosen something more sophisticated, or they would have gone to The Diogenes. Not that this establishment was what you'd call 'budget.'

The waitress eyed him curiously over her pad as she wrote down Sherlock's order, before turning to Mycroft. She repeated their order to them.

"So that's two chicory soups to start and then a poached pheasant. Will that be all, sirs?"

Mycroft's head snapped up. "No. Sherlock, you will order a main dish."

Sherlock stared at his brother, shooting death glares at him, and finding them equally returned. He sighed, sinking down into his chair, and scanned the menu before turning to the flustered waitress. "I'll have the butternut squash roast," he mumbled, handing the menu back to her. She nodded, noting it down before scurrying away.

Mycroft looked positively mortified now. He wasn't used to seeing his bother so… _deflated._ "Sherlock…" he started, cautiously.

"Mmm?"

"Are you sure you are looking after yourself? Or, rather…" he paused, hesitant. "Are you _motivated_ to look after yourself?"

The look in Sherlock's eyes at these words was all Mycroft needed to get an answer from his brother. He sighed, his eyebrows creased. "Oh, Sherlock."

* * *

Translation for this chapter: A Folly.

I know not a lot happens in this chapter (and it's kinda short..) and I'm sorry for that.  
Don't worry, a new chapter will be up soon :)

If you have any plot suggestions for the young Sherlock side of the story, please do message me with them. I'm worried it's a little sparse.

Thank you!  
Reviews make me write faster. They do. Really.


	8. Corvus

**Captain of All These Men of Death**

 **Chapter 8**

2015

 _Corvus_

The midday sunlight shone gently onto the carpet, bathing the living room and an ailing sleuth in a warm hue. In the city proper, those lucky enough to have a moment in their day stole a glance at the fresh blue sky and took a breath of the spring air gusting through the streets. Jackets were gradually becoming lighter, colours brighter and bobble hats less frequent. Bubbling under the surface of London's typical dour expression, an energy was brewing, anticipating those precious few months of summer.

Sherlock pulled his duvet closer around himself. His knees were close to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso in a vain attempt to stay warm. His body felt hot and clammy under his hands, but he was _cold._ He shivered and sweated, the duvet sticking to him as he curled ever tighter. Sickness pooled in his stomach, gradually developing into full blown nausea as he attempted to keep as still as possible to avoid actually vomiting. Time seemed to stretch and shrink indeterminately - seconds felt like days, each gentle tick of the clock caressing his face as it slid past him, and yet he would find that hours passed in moments. He could feel his arm gradually becoming numb beneath him but was loathe to move it, fearing rejections in ways he couldn't anticipate.

Soon however, the need was too great to ignore, and he gingerly shifted his weight to extract the dead limb. The pain that lanced through the muscle as he attempted to move it was excruciating - a burning, clenching pain that tugged at his skin. He gasped and twisted, jolting his stomach and forcing a coughing fit which doubled him over, his lungs straining to pull in the desperately needed oxygen. He could feel his nausea building and extracted himself from his cocoon, swaying from the change in altitude, cradling his screaming arm and still fighting back coughs as he stumbled to the bathroom and knelt over the toilet to expel the contents of his stomach.

Time slipped past him like water as he waited for the nausea to stop. His body was drained; his limbs ached and the world gently swayed before his eyes. He wasn't sure if he'd make it back to the living room any time soon. ' _Should have brought the duvet with you, imbecile_.'

* * *

The city was whispering to him, enticing him to tread its winding, cryptic streets. To discover the intricacies of its historic past and volatile future, its phenomenal power and crippling weakness. He was fuelled by the smog, fed by the people, sustained by the criminality. He was completely enamoured never able to leave for too long. His skin was hot and slick, his hair damp with sweat. His breath was more laboured than usual. He'd been running. Racing after the iron dusted criminals of the London streets, liaising with the homeless, battling the authority and twisting those in his power around and around his little finger until they bent, body and soul to his will.

He was the city. He was the blackened pavements, the crumbling walls, the worn down fabric on the Jubilee line. He was in the sounds of the road, the slang of the city and the cash passed from hand to hand to fist. He was with each line inhaled, each billowing puff of smoke forced out, each deeply pigmented syringe pushed into a vein. He was pressed tightly, an iron ball in each punch thrown at another. He sloshed over the rims of glasses and hit the cold, rain soaked pavements. He fell blackened from eyes and reddened from noses.

The back of his throat burned and acrid taste filled his mouth as he slid into an abyss of shining white. He shook as he stepped off clifftops, his body spinning like a pinwheel as he fell closer and closer to the rolling, screaming sea below, its icy grey-green arms smacking the edges of the cliff face as he plummeted towards his final demi-

A sharp pain in his head knocked him to, and Sherlock found himself once again draped limply over his toilet, his head having fallen forward and hit the porcelain rim hard. He cracked his eyes open and gingerly lifted his aching head. _'Not good,'_ Sherlock observed dryly.

He attempted to stand, and found his limbs too weak to move much further than a kneel. _'Extra not good.'_

* * *

A knock on the door signalled his next patient was waiting outside. John noted off the last name on his list and called them in. A petite elderly lady entered the small office and took the offered chair. "Hello, Dr Watson."

"Hi Mrs Sugden. How are you this afternoon?"

"I've been better, I've been worse," the lady chuckled, dutifully undoing her blouse and allowing John to inspect the healing scar on her shoulder. "Is it healing properly?"

"Perfectly. Let me just change the dressing and you can get on your way again. Have you had any more problems?"

The lady shook her head as John skilfully changed her dressing, making light conversation as he taped it firmly to her pale, age spotted skin. "All done. No more sunbathing without suncream, okay?"

The old lady chuckled at him, her eyes sparkling. "Oh, my husband and I don't do yacht tours around the mediterranean any more. That was for when we were young and beautiful."

John laughed as she pulled the door shut behind her. Mrs Sugden had been a patient at the clinic for years, and was an old favourite for all the doctors working there due to her amiable nature and kind tone. It was a high note to a generally stressful day, though John's mind had been mostly lingering on Sherlock. He was worried, and feared that Sherlock had been hiding the true extent of his symptoms. He packed his bag and left quickly.

* * *

John pulled up outside 221B. He shrugged his medical backpack over his shoulder and fished around in his pocket for his keys. Crossing the threshold, he ascended the stairs. "Sherlock?"

Upon hearing no answer, he stepped into the living room, expecting to find him asleep on the sofa, but instead found Sherlock's discarded duvet. A pang of fear shot through John as he stilled, listening for any indication of his friend. "Sherlock?"

A quiet grunt from the bathroom sent John practically running. He found the detective slumped heavily against the wall, one arm resting on the toilet. His skin was pallid, his cheeks flushed, his hair slick with sweat. His clothes were damp, clinging to his limbs. John crouched down next to the man, face marred with worry as he swept his hair off his sweaty forehead and revealed a purpling bruise.

"Sherlock, come on mate, I need you to wake up for me."

Sherlock shifted, his hand flopping off the rim of the toilet. One eye cracked open, squinting against the light. "John?"

"Yeah, it's me. Wake up."

John helped Sherlock upright, leaning him back against the wall as he rummaged through his bag. "How long have you been here?"

"Um…" Sherlock mumbled, before John put a thermometer in his mouth.

"Sherlock, you have a temperature of 38.5!"

The sleuth grunted, his voice croaky. "It must have gone down."

"Down?!" John balked, his bright blue eyes catching Sherlock's.

"I suspect my temperature reached around 39 when I started becoming delirious."

"What?! Why didn't you call me?" A hand quickly found the bruise again, John's thumb brushing gently across the purpled skin.

"You were busy."

"That's never stopped you before." There was a pause as Sherlock looked away, a little sheepish.

"How did you get this?" John asked quietly.

"I hit my head on the rim of the toilet."

John sighed, eyeing Sherlock as he unsuccessfully attempted to hide his trembling frame from the doctor. "Stop, Sherlock."

A long pause stretched between them before Sherlock let out a strangled sigh and allowed his head to fall back against the wall. He relaxed his limbs, the feverish shaking increasing, his brow knotted with discomfort. He looked over to John, who was studying him intently.

"John, help me please. I can't get back to the sofa." They both pretended not to notice the crack in Sherlock's voice.

John nodded, pulling his arm over his shoulder and allowing Sherlock to lean on him as they made their way slowly back to the living room. The movement triggered a long coughing fit. John's firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder was gone for only a moment, a glass of water and a couple of tablets pressed gently into his hand as he waited for the dizziness to clear. The water felt like velvet down his parched throat.

John sat down next to him. "Why were you in the bathroom?"

Sherlock mumbled, all his energy gone after the strain of coughing. "Vomited."

"More than once?"

A small nod. John placed the pulse oxygen monitor back on Sherlock's finger and took his blood pressure. "How much water have you drunk today?"

The noncommittal shrug was all John needed. "This isn't good enough. You're sweating through your clothes. You need water, Sherlock. You must look after yourself. TB isn't like the flu. You don't get better after a couple of days. You're in for the long-haul."

John let the silence hang between them as he watched the pulse oxygen monitor fluctuate. "We will have Mrs Hudson's results the day after tomorrow, and I've got to test Mary this evening."

Sherlock's eyes darted back to John's. "Mary?"

"She's been within close proximity to you as well, Sherlock. It's unlikely because she's a nurse, but I'm not going to take any risks."

Sherlock watched as worry flashed through John's eyes, his hands unconsciously clenching into fists on his lap. He couldn't help the guilt.

"I'm sorry, John."

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. Just focus on getting better. I'll deal with everything else." There was a pause, as John considered something for a moment. "Have you told Mycroft?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No, but he knows."

"I'm sure, but don't you think you should tell him anyway?"

The withering look Sherlock shot John made him laugh as he stood. "Just send him a text. I'll get you some clean clothes - wouldn't you prefer to be in bed?"

Sherlock considered for a moment, looking around the room. "Nah, I've got company here." He waved towards his skull.

John pulled out a pair of striped pyjamas that he found buried in the back of a drawer in Sherlock's bedroom. Walking back to the living room, he held them out for Sherlock to inspect. Sherlock's face twisted. "I thought I burned those."

"Obviously not. Present from Mycroft?"

"From my parents, actually."

"Well, they're useful for situations like this one. Put 'em on then."

Sherlock turned away. "John I honestly believed you to be more intelligent than this."

John raised an eyebrow, throwing the pyjamas onto the sleuth. "Compliments, now? You really must be ill." He pottered around the kitchen as Sherlock reluctantly pulled on the offending items. John couldn't help but smirk at the man as he grimaced at himself in the mirror. "Very smart."

"Shut up. Isn't it time for you to go now?"

"Get under that duvet and I will." He bustled around quickly as Sherlock made himself comfortable, placing water, tablets, the television remote, his laptop, a thermometer and a large mixing bowl on the coffee table next to the sleuth. "Right then. I've got to go. Text me if you start to feel ill again, and don't let yourself suffer any more than you need to. You hear me?"

"Yes mother."

"Bye Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock huffed as he heard the front door to 221B clack shut.

* * *

The title of this chapter means _The Raven,_ which was of course the title of Edgar Allen Poe's famous poem, inspired by the tragic death of his wife to Tuberculosis. She was 24.

I am very sorry for the slowest update in history ever ;-;

I hope this chappy full of Sherlock whump makes up for it a bit. I would say I will update soon, but I don't want to get anyone's hopes up haha I'm a fail  
HOWEVER  
I INTEND TO FINISH THIS STORY IF IT TAKES ME MY ENTIRE LIFE

Thanks for reading! I love reviews. They make me smile.


	9. Magnus Frater

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 9

2015

 _Magnus Frater_

Mycroft sat in the car idly playing with the handle of his cane, his attention lost in a mix of concern and frustration for his younger brother. The sky lit the evening in a yellow hue, pink clouds idly dotting the clean gradient from blue to orange above the irregular London skyline. He'd finally received a short call from Sherlock that afternoon informing him of his ailment, and they'd arranged for him to visit. Of course, he'd known of his brother's illness since he'd first been diagnosed a week ago and made the appropriate arrangements so he could safely visit him, but he appreciated the call nonetheless. Both of them knew full well that Sherlock would not willingly call his brother for anything less than self-oriented needs or case information, and Mycroft preferred to lean on more surreptitious methods of keeping track of him than simply asking about his week.

His melancholy was interrupted by his ever faithful assistant tying up her hair, revealing the nape of her neck as she leaned back against the headrest. A small section had managed to escape the confines of the tie, and curved down in a soft brown arc next to her face. Mycroft quietly resisted the urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear.

Noticing the attention, she looked at him and smiled politely. "Everything alright, Sir?"

Mycroft nodded. "Of course. Have the driver drop you home after I leave. I won't be needing your service for the rest of the afternoon."

She smiled again. "Thank you Sir."

Mycroft nodded once, returning his attention to the metropolis moving swiftly past the window. Soon enough, the car pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. His cane felt reassuringly solid in the pommel of his hand as he waited for Mrs Hudson to open the door.

The stairs creaked as Mycroft ascended to his brother's questionable flat. He found Sherlock dozing on the sofa in the lounge wrapped in a thick duvet, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, a box of tissues on his lap, and a bucket on the floor by his feet. It was plain to see that Sherlock was deeply unwell. He'd lost even more weight, his skin was sallow and drawn, there were deep bags under his eyes, and his breath was shaky and uneven. A thin sheen of sweat reflected the evening light off his brow. Mycroft quickly shed his outer layers and rested his cane against John's armchair, before sitting on the coffee table opposite the sleuth and gently laying a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stirred, cracking a bleary eye open and frowning at the man sitting opposite him. "Mycroft?" he mumbled.

"Yes Sherlock. It's me." Mycroft helped Sherlock sit up, handing him the glass of water and glancing around the room.

"It's there," Sherlock said weakly, gesturing a shaky hand to the armrest where a small electric thermometer sat. "And the ibuprofen is behind you. Two please."

Mycroft slipped the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue before reaching behind him and pushing two small white pills out from the blister packet. He placed them in Sherlock's palm just as the thermometer beeped. Sherlock handed his brother the thermometer before he took the pills with a tentative sip of water. He glanced up just in time to see Mycroft's face fully crumble into worry as he read the display and then look towards him, studying his face fully. Sherlock didn't doubt he looked as ill as he felt. He didn't try to hide it - just holding the glass steady was tiring him out.

"Sherlock… why didn't you call me sooner?" Mycroft asked, his voice unusually emotional.

"What could you have done?" Sherlock croaked, leaning back into the sofa. The glass of water in his hand began to list dangerously as he lost the fight with his limbs. Mycroft deftly plucked it from his hands.

"I could have had a specialist nurse here t-" Mycroft was silenced by the flash of disgust in Sherlock's face. "Alright then, I could have helped John and Mrs Hudson care for you."

"Well, you're here now." Sherlock mumbled. There was a pause before he spoke again. "…I'm sorry."

Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh, before getting up and putting the kettle on. He pulled two cups from the cupboards, idly opening the bread bin as he waited for the tea to stew and spotted one of Mrs Hudson's scones winking at him next to a loaf of bread. He brought the tea back into the living room, the scone balanced on his saucer, and ignored the smirk Sherlock shot him as he spotted the offending cake. Mycroft sat next to him and helped Sherlock sit up, before passing him his cup of tea. He watched as his younger brother took a tiny sip.

"So, what have you done today?"

Sherlock shot him a look. "Small talk?"

Mycroft met his gaze and smiled, his signature self indulgence oozing from his features. He sipped his tea. "Yes, small talk," he drawled. "Well?"

"Slept, vomited, slept, and watched daytime TV."

"Anything good?"

"There was quite an intriguing family on Jeremy Kyle - they came on to resolve whether the husband had cheated on his wife."

"And had he?"

"Oh yes, but they all failed to reveal they had in fact both cheated on each other with the same person - the wife's stepbrother."

Mycroft's eyebrows quirked as he sipped from his cup. "And how did you deduce this?"

"The wife obviously wasn't very invested in her appearance, but it was evident she had paid to have a set of acrylic nails in a rather lurid green. The colour exactly matched the shade of his t-shirt, and when he stepped onstage, they maintained eye contact for a second longer than normal. She leaned forward in her chair and placed her hand on her neck, with which of course she intended to guide his eye to the nape of her neck and then down to her cleavage. Though, quite frankly, I don't know why anyone would find such a view attractive." Mycroft suppressed a smirk at the slightly nauseated look on Sherlock's face.

"And the husband?"

"Massive hickey on his neck."

"Oh."

There was a long pause, the silence stretching between them like a fissure, before both of the brothers began to chuckle into their teacups. Sherlock's deep rolling baritone filled the room, offset by Mycroft's more modest laughter, before being sharply cut off as Sherlock began to cough. The hot tea splashed onto his lap as he lost control of his hands, his body overcome by the deep, rolling coughs that warped his frame. Mycroft balked at the sudden change. He quickly discarded his own cup of tea, pulled the sopping duvet away and leaned over his brother, a hand on his back, feeling the shudder that rolled through his body with each deep cough.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Breathe," Mycroft found himself murmuring as he rubbed small circles on his back, realising there was little he could do to help quell the coughing fit. After what seemed like an age, the fit finally abated, and Sherlock slumped over his knees, completely exhausted from the effort. Mycroft gently leaned his brother back against the sofa, his stomach dropping through the floor when he spotted the flecks of blood on his brother's lip. "Sherlock, you're coughing up blood!"

Sherlock nodded weakly. "Have been for the last couple of days." He mumbled. "John says it's from the force of the coughs."

"Is there nothing that can be done to resolve the issue?"

Mycroft only received a small shake of the head. He sighed. "I'm going to sort this out," he said, gesturing to the tea soaked duvet by Sherlock's feet. "Blanket?"

"In my wardrobe."

Mycroft nodded, swiftly stripping the duvet of its cover before hanging the duvet over the shower rail in the bathroom, and stuffing the cover into Sherlock's wash basket. He located 2 blankets in the wardrobe, and returned to the living room to find his brother had fallen asleep. He draped them over him before standing back, observing the pitifully weakened figure, the two blankets swamping his thin frame. It was such a drastic change from Sherlock's typical rambunctious, arrogant persona that it deeply unnerved Mycroft. He never thought he'd wish his brother would pickpocket him again.

He sank into Sherlock's wide, leather armchair and pulled out his phone, his elbows on his knees as he scrolled through his contacts and dialled the number of Dr. John H. Watson.

* * *

"Come on, John! Hurry up or I'll start the programme without you!" Mary called to her husband.

"Give me a chance to pee in peace, won't you?" John called back. Mary chuckled, taking the chance to devoid herself of her slippers and tuck herself onto the sofa. She heard the toilet flush and the sound of the tap running, an evil glint in her eye as she pressed the play button and increased the volume to ensure John could hear the opening credits. She was rewarded with the hurried _thump thump_ of footsteps on the stairs, before John rushed into the room and plopped down on to the sofa next to his wife. "Oh, don't wait for me after all then," he said huffily, before Mary leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

"Come off it. It's only the intro," she said, swatting at his arm.

John smiled, before lifting said arm up to allow Mary to lean against his chest. They sat in comfortable silence in front of the television, their hands idly resting on top of one another on Mary's swollen stomach. His thumb traced circles on Mary's hand, and her head rested comfortably in the juncture between his shoulder and chest. The living room was warm and cosy, and John soon found the quiet murmur of the television and Mary's even, relaxed breathing lulling him to sleep. As he succumbed to drowsiness, Mary chuckled.

"Are you asleep?"

"Definitely not," he murmured, not opening his eyes.

"Liar," she replied quietly, burrowing further into the crook of his arm. "I'm the one who should be tired, not you."

"Who says I'm tired?" John slurred, his voice tapering off at the last syllable as he slipped into sleep. Mary just smiled, turning down the television a few notches as John's breathing deepened below her. She ignored the first time that John's phone vibrated on the sofa armrest, preferring to watch television. The second time it rang however, she reached for it.

"Mycroft?"

"Ah, Mary."

"Hello. Is everything alright?"

"It's… been better. Can I speak to John, please?"

"Is it urgent? He's asleep."

"Yes, it is rather urgent. It's regarding Sherlock."

Mary's expression darkened. "Hang on." She didn't hesitate to poke John hard in the rib, making him yelp in surprise as he was forced awake. John blinked slowly at his wife, his expression a mix of confused and betrayed. In different circumstances, Mary would have laughed. Instead, she pushed the phone into John's hand. "It's Mycroft."

John's eyes cleared quickly and he put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Mycroft?"

Mary watched as John sat up, his expression alert as he listened to Mycroft, before he stood and left the room, glancing back to smile some reassurance to Mary before he crossed the threshold. John returned his full attention to the Holmes brother when he entered the hallway.

"Sorry, Mycroft. Carry on."

The older Holmes cleared his throat before continuing. "Like I said, Sherlock is not in a good way, and from my observations, he seems to be getting worse rather than better. You are aware he is coughing up blood, of course."

"Yeah, it started a few days ago. TB is a very hard disease to kill, and it's not unusual for a person to become more unwell before they improve, but I've also got the same concerns you do. I think he needs more intensive care than we can manage. He really should be in a hospital."

"When I arrived this afternoon, his temperature was 39.2."

John mutely watched Mary as she joined him in the hallway, her expression sombre as she leaned on the wall opposite him and watched her husband's brow furrow. "That's higher than the midday reading Mrs Hudson did. Did you get him to drink anything?"

"A little water and tea - he spilled most of that on to his lap during a bought of coughing. He fell asleep afterwards - that was about 10 minutes ago."

There was a long pause, and John could sense that Mycroft was studying his ailing brother. His voice once more permeated the line. "John, I don't want him to be by himself tonight. You are a qualified doctor, and I would feel much more comfortable knowing you were with him."

There was a long pause as John looked across at his wife, a resigned look in his eyes. "Fine. Stay there until I arrive. If he gets worse, call me." John ended the call, and slumped bodily against the wall. He lifted his face to Mary, his face marred with worry. "He's getting worse," he said, inwardly shocked at the audible cracks in his voice.

"Then go and care for him, doctor." Mary said swiftly. She stepped towards him and enveloped him in a tight hug. John's head drooped forward to rest on her shoulder. "He'll get better," she murmured into his neck. "He's Sherlock Bloody Holmes, the most stubborn man on earth. He'll get better."

John wished he could believe her words.

* * *

Translation for this chapter - Big Brother.

Thank you so much for your continued support!  
I've planned out the entire story now, and I'm also finished with my second year of university (one more to go…) so I have 5 months of less inhibited time ahead of me. This should hopefully mean more frequent chapters :)

Please leave a review, a follow or a fav. Even just a "Hi Dangsoo!" would make me smile like the Cheshire Cat.  
Reviews result in wonderful warm weather.  
Enjoy the sunshine, everyone.


	10. Praedo Luvenis

Captain Of All These Men Of Death

Chapter 10

2015

 _Praedo Luvenis_

Mary stood in the hallway watching her husband rummage through his medical backpack. "Pulse ox?" She said, and John started.

"Ah! That's what's missing. I left it with Sherlock the other day."

"So you have everything else?"

"Looks like it." John stood, slinging one loop of the backpack over his shoulder. He turned to Mary, pausing a moment to take her image in. His crazy, fantastic, marksman-assassin wife stood before him, heavily pregnant with their child and wrapped in a fluffy pink dressing gown. It was surreal.

Mary quirked her head at him. "What?"

"Nothing." John stepped forward and enfolded her in a hug, kissing her head as she rested it on his shoulder. "I'll see you soon."

She smiled. "Say hello to the Holmes brothers for me."

"Will do. Save me a crumpet."

She grinned wickedly as he opened the front door. "Fat chance."

John shot her a mock wounded look as he pulled the door shut behind him. Alone in the spring darkness, he allowed the concern for his ailing friend to wash over him again. He was painfully aware there wasn't all that much he would be able to do. _'Well, you can do better than brood,'_ he told himself resolutely, before picking up the pace towards his car parked a few hundred metres down the street.

* * *

Sherlock walked the hallways of his mind palace. Everything was dimmer than usual; doors were harder to push open and corridors seemed longer. The lights in the panelled hallways flickered gently. The floors seemed less polished, and dust gathered in the corners of rooms. His footsteps echoed less. Areas he knew had once splayed before him like a maze were no longer there, replaced by blank walls and empty space.

This was not what he had expected. Illness was a strange thing. Before, when he had suffered through violent comedowns, or when Mary had shot him, his palace had been shattered. The walls had cracked and warped, rooms and corridors had flowed into one another like rivers, and the sound of his footsteps had been sharp against his ears. This was different. Rather than violently, catastrophically breaking, his great database had simply shrunk and dimmed. It had softened around the edges.

A hand on his shoulder spurred Sherlock out of his reverie, the pain in his body increasing in increments as he swung upwards into consciousness. The room was dark when he opened his eyes, the only source of light coming from the lamp on the bookshelf above Sherlock's armchair. He focussed on his brother.

"Sherlock, are you with me?" Mycroft asked him quietly.

Sherlock replied with a tiny nod. Talking took a little too much at the moment. His skin felt clammy. His head ached, his chest ached, his muscles ached. His _bones_ ached.

"How are you feeling?" His brother prompted him again. Sherlock blinked slowly at him, distracted by the uncharacteristic amount of concern in his brother's blue eyes. _'Is that because of me?'_ he thought sluggishly.

A cool hand on his forehead snapped him to lucidity. "Hm?" Sherlock asked hoarsely. "What?"

"How do you feel?" Mycroft asked him again, his palm still against his brother's forehead.

"Like I've been fed through a wood chipper."

Mycroft grimaced at him. "You couldn't have thought of a less gory description…" he chided as he placed the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly as he shook his head.

"You're incorrigible." Mycroft took the temperature gauge and looked at the display, sighing. "As I suspected. It's gone up again. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock's expression quickly went from confused to horrified as Mycroft tugged both blankets off of his brother, leaving him only with his slightly damp pyjamas. "Oi!" he squawked weakly, scrabbling for the fabric as it slipped off his feet. Mycroft simply quirked an eyebrow at him as he folded the blankets. "Mycroft…" Sherlock began pitifully. He could already feel the shivers coming.

"No. Stay here."

 _'I don't have the energy to go anywhere else…'_ Sherlock mused as he watched Mycroft carefully place the blankets over the armrest of John's chair before leaving the living room. Sherlock let his eyes wander towards the bookshelf, idly scanning the myriad of colours and titles pressed tightly next to each other against the wall. He tried to ignore the ice prickling up his arms and legs and the involuntary shuddering that was gaining momentum. He flattened his palms against his chest, the heat radiating off his skin a strange juxtaposition to the feeling of cold.

Mycroft rejoined him in the living room, holding a plain grey t-shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers. His eyebrows dipped as he observed Sherlock's shuddering, but he chose not to mention it. He handed Sherlock the clothes. "Put these on."

Sherlock took the bundle and dropped them onto his lap as his fingers found the first button of his pyjama shirt. Mycroft watched his trembling fingers fumble at the button for a moment, before huffing and kneeling to take over undressing his little brother. "Weren't these pyjamas the ones you vowed never to wear when you received them last Christmas?" He mused as he quickly dealt with the buttons.

"Indeed. John found them… somewhere. I would have burned them, but Mrs Hudson hid my bunsen burner."

Mycroft quirked a smile as he shrugged the offending item off his brother's shoulders and helped him into the t-shirt. "They aren't _that_ bad."

"No, I suppose not. Not as bad as that jumper you got from Aunt Margo."

Mycroft's expression darkened as he remembered the lurid red and green hand-knitted Christmas jumper he'd been forced to wear on pain of dismemberment by their Mother. He couldn't recall what he'd done with it after that - probably something unnecessarily violent.

"Yes," he replied grimly. He attempted to help his brother out of his cotton trousers, but his hand was slapped away. Sherlock stubbornly managed the rest himself. Neither of them mentioned Sherlock's haggard breathing after he'd shimmied on the clean pair.

The sound of a key being pushed into the door to 221B alerted the brothers to John's arrival. Sherlock shot Mycroft a sharp look. "You called John?"

"I did. Don't argue with me, Sherlock. I would stay but I can't, and you are unwell."

"I'm fine by myself!" Sherlock countered, his voice rising a little as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Mycroft didn't deign to answer such a ludicrous claim. Instead, he smiled at the sandy haired man who had just entered the lounge. "John. Good evening."

"Hi. Everyone alright? Don't answer that, Sherlock." John said, walking over to the two and sitting next to the sleuth. "How have you been today?"

Sherlock's sour, tired expression told John all he needed to know. He turned to Mycroft. "You alright?"

"Fine, thank you." Mycroft turned on his heel and walked towards the kitchen to fill the kettle. "We just changed Sherlock's bedclothes," he called back to the men in the living room.

"We?" Sherlock mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. It was definitely more comfortable wearing dry clothes, but he sorely missed the sleeves on his last shirt. He was still trembling like a newborn colt. His mind felt sluggish and foggy and his body weighed him down like an anchor in a sea of malaise. John reached into his bag and pulled out an ear thermometer, placing a disposable cap on the end. He put it to Sherlock's ear.

There was a pause as John read the display and Mycroft returned holding 3 cups of tea - one half full for Sherlock. "Let's not have another spillage, shall we?" Mycroft drawled as he handed his brother the cup. Sherlock ignored him.

John looked to Mycroft. "What and when was the last temperature reading you took?"

"39.4, twenty minutes ago. I took away his blankets."

John frowned. "It hasn't dropped at all. Mycroft, would you mind getting me a cold flannel please?"

John returned his attention the ailing sleuth, clipping the pulse oxygen monitor on to Sherlock's finger. "It's low, but that's to be expected…" he mumbled to himself as he hooked a stethoscope into his ears and ignored Sherlock's protestations when he lifted his t-shirt and pressed the disc to his chest. Used to it by now, Sherlock begrudgingly let John take his vitals and answered the questions fired at him in quick succession. He'd realised by now that the less fuss he made, the quicker it was over with. John pressed the cold flannel that Mycroft had just handed him to Sherlock's forehead and finally allowed him to lean back against the sofa. John sat back, sighing deeply. "Your vitals aren't any better or worse than yesterday, but I'm worried about that temperature. You were right to call me, Mycroft."

Sherlock watched Mycroft nod through slitted eyes. There was too much going on around him, and it was tiring him out. His skin was riddled with goosebumps, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face and back, and his body hurt. He longed for the softness of his bed, but the distance between him and it may as well have been a hundred miles. John spotted Sherlock's pained expression. He placed a hand gently on Sherlock's arm.

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock turned his head slowly towards John and met his eyes, blinking slowly. The expression John found there made his chest tighten. "I know," he said, his fingers briefly tightening in sympathy.

Sherlock's mouth opened, forming tired words, his eyebrows crinkling with the effort. "I would like to be in bed."

John nodded. "Alright. Stay awake for a little bit longer." The pressure of John's weight on the sofa next to him lifted as he stood up and began moving items from the living room to the bedroom in preparation of Sherlock's short migration. "Mycroft," he called, "will you help us move to the bedroom before you leave this evening?"

"Of course." Mycroft said, rising from the armchair he had been observing the proceedings from and joining John in front of Sherlock. John sat down next to Sherlock and lifted one of his long arms, placing it over his shoulder and around his neck. Mycroft stood in front of them and took the outstretched hand that Sherlock offered him. At John's count, they worked in tandem to help Sherlock to his feet, John bearing most of Sherlock's weight, and Mycroft providing the momentum needed to get him upright. As soon as he was standing, Mycroft pulled Sherlock's free arm over his own shoulders. Sherlock was already breathing heavily, the exertion of simply standing almost too much for him. They stood for a moment, letting the dark haired man catch his breath.

"Ok," John said after a moment. "No rush. You ready to go?"

Sherlock nodded mutely and the three of them made their slow way across the length of the flat and into Sherlock's bedroom, the two men bearing most of his weight. The bed was sweet, soft bliss on his exhausted body. John had arranged the cushions so he could lean comfortably against the headrest. Mycroft pulled the duvet over his knees. Sherlock could hear them talking to each other, but he was unable to distinguish words in the haze as he succumbed fully to sleep.

* * *

John's watch alarm jolted him awake - he'd set it to go off at midnight so he could check on Sherlock. His temperature had plateaued at a worrying 39.2, and John hadn't felt comfortable leaving him alone for the whole night, so instead of going upstairs to his bed, he'd hunkered down on the sofa in the living room in preparation for regular checks. Yawning, he eased himself up, his neck stiff from the uneven surface, and reached for his medical bag. Still half asleep, it took him a little while to remember he'd left it by Sherlock's bed.

John padded towards Sherlock's bedroom and pushed the door gently open, shedding a chink of light onto the wall facing the doorway. He eased himself through, flipping the bedside lamp on. Sherlock didn't stir. His face was flushed, his skin and hair slick with sweat. John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, intending to rouse him, but was shocked at the heat radiating from his friend's body through his clothes. He moved his hand to Sherlock's clammy neck, his worry deepening as Sherlock still made no sign of waking up.

"Sherlock," John said, shaking his shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up." He tried to quell the prickle of panic that ran down his spine when his friend still did not awaken. He leaned over him, one ear hovering over Sherlock's lips, his eyes on his chest, and was partially reassured when he felt and heard a puff of warm, if wheezy, breath. _'Still breathing,'_ he told himself, before lightly slapping the sleuth on the cheek and speaking loudly into his ear. "Sherlock. I need you to wake up. Come on, wake up."

The rush of relief that washed over him when Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion was substantial. "That's it, Sherlock. Wake up. Come on." He watched his friend very slowly return to consciousness, until he finally opened bleary, delirious eyes and looked towards the disturbance.

"Jhn?" He murmured.

"Yep, It's me. Can you sit up a bit for me?"

John helped Sherlock move up the pillows a little, continuously talking to him in an effort to prevent him falling asleep again. "Okay, there we go. I'm going to take your temperature in your ear, alright?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, slightly listing to the side as John leaned down and prepared the thermometer before placing it in Sherlock's ear. He wasn't surprised at the reading, but it didn't make him feel any better. He looked back at Sherlock, who's eyes were drooping once again. "No you don't," John quickly chided, patting Sherlock's cheek again. "Stay awake."

Sherlock's bottom lip puckered a little. "Tired…"

"I know you are. But you can't go back to sleep." He handed Sherlock a glass of water. "Sip this for me." John watched as Sherlock began taking tiny sips from the glass, before fishing around in his pocket for his mobile. He thumbed in the password, brought up the keypad, and dialled 999.

* * *

The translation for this chapter is _Robber of Youth,_ which was a term used to describe tuberculosis in the 18th and 19th century.

Thank you for reading this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it!  
I wrote this in a cafe; I think I'll do it more. It was nice.

Please leave a review. They fill me with inexplicable joy, and that joy makes me write faster.

See you soon!


	11. Periculum

Captain Of All These Men Of Death

Chapter 11

2004

 _Periculum_

Sherlock pushed the damp, rotting door ajar and peered into the gloom. It was early evening, the sky a dour, gloomy grey, the sunset hidden behind a layer of cloud. The wind whipped at his hair and face as he eased himself quietly inside.

The room was huge, cold and dark, apart from a small flickering light in one corner. Broken plaster and rubble crunched underfoot as he crossed the room, noting more and more still figures as his eyes became accustomed to the pitch black. He buried his hands in his pockets and pulled his scarf up to his nose, partly to warm his cheeks, partly to mask the smell. The candlelight drew closer, gently illuminating two rough faces. They were looking at him.

"Haven't seen you around here in a while," one grunted, a grubby hand reaching up to tug at his threadbare beanie. The other nodded in agreement, huddling a little closer to the sparse warmth of the candle.

"Surprisingly, I have nicer places to frequent", Sherlock replied dryly, crouching down next to them and holding out long, slender fingers to the flickering candle.

There was silence as the unlikely trio huddled around the light. Fire had always fascinated Sherlock, and he allowed himself a moment to take in the bright yellow teardrop of flame as it danced in his eyes. As a child, he'd taken any chance he could to be near to a fire, and had on more than one occasion burned himself trying to thrust his hands into the grate when his mother wasn't looking. The pain had never quite won over the fascination, however.

A bony elbow jabbing his side snapped him back to the cold, derelict room. The woman next to him was grinning. "Oi, dozin' off? You c'n sleep on my lap if y' like." Her cold knuckles brushed Sherlock's cheek before he could slap her away, inwardly shuddering. She cackled, her gappy teeth glinting in the flickering light as she threw her head back. "Yeah, I was pretty once too y'know," she laughed. "Then I met Mr. Brown." She picked up a spoon with a bent handle and waggled it at him.

Sherlock's lip curled in distaste as he looked back towards the flame. The light permeated the tips of his fingers, making them glow a dull pink colour. He curled them towards his palms.

The man spoke again. "Let him be, Lynne." His eyes flicked to the sleuth. "You make a point though. You've got better places to be. Why here with us riffraff?"

Sherlock smiled darkly. "Passing time, really. I fancied a little chat."

"And a bit o' wash as well, eh?" Lynne said, leaning into Sherlock, a knowing smirk on her face as he eyed his body trembling.

Sherlock ignored her, turning to the man. "Any news?"

"Why don't you just read the newspaper like everyone else?"

"Newspapers are akin to holding a mirror to smoke - the more you search the less you see. Why not just go to the fire itself?" Sherlock replied sharply, a wry smile playing ups his lips as he held eye contact with the man opposite him. The man shrugged, tugging at his beanie.

"I might have something you'll like." The man dipped a grubby hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a flyer.

Sherlock took it, his eyes clouding in confusion. "This is a church healing programme."

The man nodded. "There was a man handing them out to us under the Waterloo Bridge yesterday."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And? Don't you get these all the time?"

"Yes, but he was different. He didn't try to pray with me, or offer me food, or ask me about my story. He just smiled." The man tugged at his beanie, frowning. "And then I took it, and he leaned in towards me and said 'God is waiting to pay you back for your hard work.'"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. The leaflet was severely underwhelming - a hand folded piece of paper, decorated liberally with clipart. The front cover was emblazoned with the word _SALVATION._ There was a staple in the back page. Sherlock held it up to the light. "What was this holding?"

The man grinned. "A bump of ketamine."

"What?" Sherlock asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

The woman chimed in, grinning. "A bump. An actual bump. Stapled t' a church flyer. A fuckin' bump."

Sherlock pulled out a crisp £20 note and handed it to the man, who watched as the sleuth slipped the flyer into his coat pocket. He grinned. "Always a pleasure doing business with you."

Sherlock gave a short nod and made to stand, before being pulled back down to a crouch by a tight hand on his jacket sleeve. The woman leaned in, her breath on Sherlock's ear, a malicious grin playing across her face. "It's rude ta leave a lady alone, Mr 'Olmes."

Sherlock tugged his face away from hers, yanking his arm out of her grip. "Get off of me," he snarled at her, venom dripping from his voice. She instantly let go, shuffling away from him. In one fluid motion, Sherlock stood and strode away from the two, the rotting door bouncing loudly on the doorframe as it swung shut behind him.

The man tugged at his beanie, hie eyes on the flame between them. "You shouldn't have done that, Lynne." He turned to the woman who was hurriedly wiping tears from her eyes with the heel of a gloved hand. "Lynne?"

"Just scared me a bit. M' alright," she mumbled, fiddling with her spoon, before proffering it to her companion. "Ay, cook me up some will ya?"

* * *

Translation for this chapter: Risk

I know this chapter is very short! I am sorry about this!

After about a week of horrible rainy coldness, it's finally starting to warm up again in London. The sky is still grey though. At least my ice tea is good.

Thank you for the wonderful reviews on the last chapter. I hope to be able to continue reading such kind comments :D


	12. Tussim Im Cimeterium

**A Message In Las**

Chapter 12

2015

 _Tussim Im Cimeterium_

John ended the call with the ambulance coordinator, sliding the phone onto the bedside table. He refocussed his attention on Sherlock, who was leaning against the headboard and blinking into the gloom.

"Sherlock?" John said softly, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. The heat of his fever radiated through Sherlock's damp t-shirt.

Sherlock turned his head towards the sound, his glassy, semi-awake eyes sliding to John, who smiled weakly at him. "Hmm?" He mumbled.

"Just me," John said, tapping the glass of water Sherlock was holding loosely in his lap. "Drink some more." He watched as Sherlock slowly contemplated the glass for a moment, before lifting it to his lips. John nodded. "Alright Sherlock. I'm going to wake Mrs Hudson up. I'll be back in a moment; don't fall asleep again if you can. Stay awake for me."

Sherlock nodded absently, and John rose from his seat, descending the stairs down to 221A. He was painfully aware how early it was as he rapped his knuckles on her front door. As expected, the expression he was awarded with when she opened was not one of joy. "John, what's going on?" She whispered harshly to him. "It's nearly 1 in the morning!"

"Sorry Mrs Hudson, but I need your help. Sherlock's temperature is dangerously high and I've called an ambulance." To John's great relief, the landlady needed no more provocation. She nodded.

"Alright dear. Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll be ready to open the door."

"Thank you," he said breathlessly. "I've got to go back to Sherlock. I'll be down in a few."

When John arrived back into Sherlock's room, he was disheartened but unsurprised to find him asleep again. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the glass of water from his slack hand, and patted Sherlock's cheek. "Sherlock, come on."

Sherlock shifted, a little grunt of confusion emanating from him as his head lolled towards the light. John smirked as the sleuth opened his eyes and a flash of his classic disdain showed through the fevered confusion. "What?" He mumbled. "Whaddyawant?"

"Wake up."

"No."

"Yes. You need to wake up - and stay awake this time."

"That's not… not logical. Idiots, John."

"Who's an idiot?"

There was a pause as Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together. "…Anderson?"

John couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, you think he's an idiot."

Sherlock nodded floppily, his expression a mix of determined and bewildered. "Yes."

"Though, he didn't give up when you vanished."

"Vanished?"

"Well, died."

The look of innocent, feverish shock on Sherlock's face at that moment made John want to both cry with worry and laugh at the whole absurd situation. 'I… I'm dead?" Sherlock asked weakly.

Placing a hand on his ailing friend's knee, John smiled. "Not yet mate."

The sound of the doorbell rang through the flat, and John went to switch on the main light as he heard Mrs Hudson opening the door. "Sherlock, we're going to take you to hospital. You're not well."

The lack of protest at this declaration only served to deepen John's worry, and he turned back just in time to see Sherlock's head droop forward as he once again lost the battle to stay awake. John dashed back to his friend, placing one hand behind the base of his skull and one on his forehead to guide Sherlock back to the headboard. "Okay…" John mumbled to himself as he patted the sleuth's cheek.

The sound of footsteps rumbled up the stairs, and John greeted the paramedics as they entered, swiftly followed by Mrs Hudson. "Dr John Watson," he said, still attempting to rouse Sherlock as he spoke to them. "This is Sherlock Holmes - he's receiving treatment for Open Pulmonary Tuberculosis. I recorded a temperature orally of 40.2 Celsius at midnight. He was difficult to rouse and has not been able to stay conscious. I've woken him once since, not including now. He's confused and lethargic."

The paramedics nodded before closing in on the semi-conscious man on the bed. John watched as one wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's clammy arm and the other took his temperature. Mrs Hudson hovered nearby, wringing her hands before John sent her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. He's getting the help he needs, and we aren't going to let him out of our sight. OK?"

"Alright," she said softly.

The paramedic leaned over Sherlock's still unresponsive form, one eye on the blood pressure cuff. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" She called, and was rewarded with a long, wheezy sigh and a grunt.

John smiled and briefly squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck. "That's it, come on," he coaxed as Sherlock shifted, his eyes fluttering open.

"Hello, Mr Holmes. I'm Gillian, and this is Rory," the paramedic said, gesturing to her colleague. "Can you tell me how you're feeling right now?"

There was a pause as everyone watched Sherlock look to the woman smiling at him, a blank expression on his face. "I feel…" His voice faltered. "I…"

The paramedic smiled. "It's alright, don't worry."

John sighed, patting Sherlock's shoulder as he watched the other paramedic take Sherlock's temperature. "He was more lucid the last time I woke him, though he didn't make much sense. I don't have the equipment I need to bring down a temperature this high."

The paramedic nodded. "Ok, we'll take him to UCH."

John nodded his assent. "I'll follow you in my car."

While the paramedics bustled around and prepared to move Sherlock, John sat by his bed. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned his head listlessly, his eyes unfocussed. "Mm?"

"Are you ready to go?"

"I'm cold, John."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but I can't give you a blanket. Do you know what's happening?"

"I'm being taken to hospital."

"Good. We're coming with you."

* * *

John slung his medical backpack into the boot and shut the lid, walking around to the driver's seat. He smiled at Mrs Hudson as he strapped himself in. "Good?"

"Just about…" She replied weakly. "Oh, Sherlock, how do you get yourself into these messes?"

John chuckled. "He's Sherlock Holmes. Mess is his default setting."

The journey to the hospital was quick and quiet. For once, the early morning had rendered the streets and roads of Central London almost empty, and it was a simple case of following the ambulance the short distance from their flat to hospital. After emptying their pockets into the carpark ticket machine, they were quickly directed to Sherlock's isolation room by the nurse at the front desk. Sherlock was alone in his room by the time they made it to his bedside, but John was relieved to find a drip had already been inserted into his arm. He'd been changed out of his damp pyjamas and into a green hospital gown, and seemed more alert. He smiled weakly at them when they entered.

"Hello."

"Hello dear," Mrs Hudson said, sitting down in the chair next to his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Cold. And… slow."

She quirked a smile and patted his pale hand. "I'm sure you'll perk up soon… won't he John?"

John nodded. "I'm sure. I'm going to speak to Mycroft and Mary; won't be a moment."

Stepping out of the room, John wandered the small ward until he found a vacant waiting room. He sat on one of the foam chairs and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number of Mycroft Holmes. He tapped the call button, bringing the phone up to his ear and listening for the dial tone. The phone only had the chance to ring twice before it was answered.

"John. Is everything alright?"

Mycroft's voice was clear and strong - _'Must have still been awake'_ thought John.

"Well," he said, his own voice notably less powerful, "not really. Sherlock's been admitted. We're at UCH."

There was a pause, and John could easily visualise Mycroft's expression as he swallowed a sudden pang of worry for his brother. "What happened?"

"His temperature spiked above 40. He's delirious and confused and couldn't stay awake, so I called an ambulance. He's on a drip in the isolation ward while we wait for his temperature to go back down to a safer level."

"How long do you surmise he will be admitted?"

"Well, if his temperature drops, probably until the morning. If something else comes up, then… longer."

There was another pause as Mycroft took in the news and decided a plan. "I'll be there within the hour."

Before John could reply, Mycroft had hung up. John blinked mutely at his phone for a moment, before shrugging. _'Well, the more the merrier I suppose.'_

He was about to press the call button for Mary when a flash of blue whisked past the doorway to the waiting room. Poking his head out into the hallway, he caught the back of a nurse hurriedly pushing the door open to Sherlock's room. The call forgotten, John rushed back to Sherlock, pushing the door open to his room with a knot in his stomach.

The sight that met him was one that he would never forget. Sherlock's face was deathly pale, his eyes reddened, his expression pained as he stared, eyes locked, towards the ceiling. His body was convulsing violently, limbs clenching and unclenching, jaw locked as the nurse rolled him gently over into the recovery position and placed a strong hand on his shoulder. John dashed over, adding his hands to Sherlock's legs, the muscles below his fingers tightening as hard as iron each time Sherlock convulsed. "Sherlock!" John called, watching helplessly as his best friend's body rocked uncontrollably in the throes of seizure. John could feel the heat radiating off of Sherlock's skin. It felt inhumanly hot.

Mrs Hudson was holding Sherlock's hands, her pace marred with panic. "What's wrong with him?!" She cried, looking to John and the nurse.

"His body got too hot couldn't control his temperature any more, so he's having a seizure."

"Will it hurt him?" She said, watching as Sherlock's hand clenched and unclenched around hers.

"Not if it stops in the next 3 minutes." John replied calmly, one eye on the clock on the wall, one eye on the shuddering man below him.

Time seemed to stretch to immeasurable lengths as the three waited for Sherlock's seizure to abate, but, sure enough, it did. When Sherlock's muscles finally relaxed below John's hands, he let out a deep sigh of relief, looking at the nurse, who nodded and rolled Sherlock back to his previous position. Sherlock's breath was even, if shallow, his eyes closed, his face relaxed.

"He's fallen asleep," the nurse said. "We'll let him sleep, I think." She too his temperature and picked up Sherlock's chart as John pressed a finger to his jugular. She listed the readings, wrote a quick note, and then left them to it. "I'll be at the desk if you need help," she said as she pulled the door shut again.

Mrs Hudson sank back down into the chair by Sherlock's bed, her eyes never leaving the sleeping sleuth. "Sherlock Holmes," she said quietly, her voice sharp but shaking. "You scared the life out of me. Don't ever do that again." John's hand found her shoulder, squeezing it comfortably as she wiped a tear away from her eye. "Oh, I'm sorry John. I'm just being silly."

"No you're not. That scared me too." John pulled up another chair and sat down next to the long suffering landlady. He sighed again, allowing himself a moment to relax and let his exhaustion show through. A comforting hand patted his knee, and he grasped it in his own. "What are we going to do with him, eh?"

Mrs Hudson chuckled. "Who knows."

* * *

The translation for this chapter is _The Graveyard Cough,_ which is a rather poetic name for TB used in an advert selling a cough tincture in the Cambridge Chronicle, 1888:

" _A Graveyard Cough._

 _The short, dry, harking cough, which announces the approach of consumption, has been aptly termed a graveyard cough. The peril is great, and near at hand, but it can be surely averted with Dr. Pierces Golden Medical Discovery, a botanic remedy, without a peer for pulmonary, throat and liver affections, and for all ailments which, like consumption, have a scrotulous origin, and also for eruptions and sores, Indicating impurity of the blood. Druggists all sell it."_

I'm sure it did a world of good.

Thank you for reading this chapter, and I do apologise for the delay!

Has everyone been enjoying the hot weather? It's nice out of the city, but the London smog makes it very fuggy, and the lack of air conditioning on the tube means temperatures climb upwards of 40C. Not fun, dry… or sweet smelling.

I will update soon hopefully!

Please leave a review :)


	13. Tussis Leniendo

Captain Of All These Men Of Death

Chapter 13

2004

 _T_ _ussis_ _L_ _eniendo_

Sherlock turned the flyer over and over in his hands, thought marred by his protesting transport. ' _God, I feel like death…'_

His senses refocussed on his surroundings - the greyed tiles, the garish adverts plastered to the curved walls, the glossy yellow paint, the smell of iron, dust and stale air. He was standing on an empty platform on the underground.

He wasn't quite sure how he'd got here. Which station was this? What was the time?

A quick turn of his head solved the first query. _'Lambeth North… and it's half past 3.'_ He rolled his sleeve back down over his watch as a train screeched into the station. He stepped aboard, inwardly thankful that the carriage was relatively empty. He slumped down opposite a man with dark hair who smiled at him. Sherlock quirked a brow, before offering a half smile back. He turned away, preferring to stare at his silhouette in the window.

The man wasn't so easily deterred. "You know," he said, his voice coming out in a slow drawl, a sliding tenor framed by an Irish twang; "the Bakerloo is the oldest line on the network."

Sherlock glanced at the man, taking a moment to look him over more intently. He wasn't particularly striking - he was wearing a grey high-street suit, a striped tie, and his shoes were in need of a polish. _'Salaryman, finance sector, low to mid level wage packet. Newly married.'_ His mind supplied him. Boring. Annoying. And yet… there was something strange. Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes filled with distaste. The man smiled.

"Built by the Victorians, you know. No power tools here. Just blood, sweat, and rats. Thousands and thousands of rats."

Sherlock frowned at him, meeting his eyes properly for the first time. Something about this man unnerved him. His eyes were dark, sinister. Cold. They held his gaze unerringly, even as he continued to speak. "So many rats in fact, the workers had to tie string around their trousers to stop them biting."

Sherlock frowned, not braking his gaze with the man. "Why are you telling me this?"

The train rumbled around a turn, the lights flickering as the two men swayed against the movement, their eyes locked. The dark man smiled again, his voice only just loud enough to be heard over the squealing brakes as they rounded another corner. "A seething mass of rats. Imagine them running past your feet, over your shoes, pressing up against the walls…" his eyes widened as he waggled his fingers, his grin sharp. "Everywhere."

"Who are you?" Sherlock ground out, trying to hide a deep feeling of unease.

"How would you fix it, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's stomach dropped at his name, his mouth opening to utter a retort, but a finger was placed over his mouth before he could speak. His breath caught in his chest as he felt the cold limb press on his lips.

The man stopped smiling. "You'd call a rat catcher of course," he said darkly as the train screeched into a station. "But you'd do well to treat him with care, or he might just steal everything you love."

Sherlock watched, speechless, as the man stood and sauntered off the train, the sound of his voice echoing through the empty platform. "Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, and bit the babies in the cradles…"

Sherlock fought to control a sudden rise of panic that welled up in his chest as the doors slid shut. His hands shook violently, his breath coming in thick gasps as he pressed his fingernails into his palms to try and ground himself. He _needed_ a release. It was his only prerogative. He hated himself for it.

As soon as the train pulled into the next platform, Sherlock dashed off the train and pulled out his phone, sending a short message to a dealer he knew around the area. The girl appeared a few minutes later, smoking a roll-up. "Alright darlin'?" She said darkly, her smile all too knowing for Sherlock's liking.

"Fine." He thrust his last crumpled note at her and she passed him a small bag of white powder, her eyes glinting as she took a deep drag of her cigarette. "It's not enough love, but we'll stick it on your tab, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes on the pavement as he took the baggie. She cackled at him, and blew a puff of smoke into his face. "Till next time then!" She called, sauntering away, blowing smoke into the sky.

Sherlock fumbled with the needle, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes blurred as he tried to steady his hands enough to push the needle into his veins. He'd already poked himself and drawn blood. There was a small but steady trail of red dripping off the point of his elbow. Pushing on the plunger felt like a rush of euphoria. The world was bright and fantastic.

But something was wrong. Something was choppy and broken. "Bad batch…" he heard himself saying, though it echoed and swayed with his surroundings. His body felt light and his stomach churned as the world undulated around him, pain lurching up his side as he hit something on the way to the ground. He rolled over, his limbs not cooperating as he felt his heart begin to race and sweat beaded on his brow. Cold, trembling fingers dipped into his pocket and fished out his phone, but he couldn't control his limbs enough to use it. ' _Damn it, this is what becomes of you…'_ he thought angrily as the phone slipped from his fingers, his vision fading around the edges.

"Mycroft," he heard himself mumbling over and over like a mantra as the world closed in around him. His veins felt like fire, his breath came in short bursts, his heart raced. The world crashed like a boiling sea, rough in a storm.

Something was happening to him, but he had no idea what. A warm hand pressed itself against his forehead, lifting the hair away from his eyes. Someone looked back at him. Someone's eyes. Green. The last drops of thought rolled away from him as the hand left his forehead, and he knew no more.

* * *

The translation for this chapter is "Cough Sedative", which is a reference to Bayer's Heroin - a 'non-addictive miracle cure' widely used to treat Tuberculosis, Pneumonia and all manner of respiratory ailments. The funny thing was, it did actually work. Of course, until they realised it was highly addictive and 4x stronger than morphine.

I know this chapter is short! I was planning to write more but then it kind of just came to a natural cliffhanger… haha… ahhh

I have the next 2 chapters planned out, and now both are on a cliffhanger, I'll let you decide which one you want to see first. Please leave a review saying whether you'd rather have a present or a past chapter next - most votes dictates which I next post!

See you soon! (If all goes to plan)


	14. Mortis Album

Captain Of All These Men Of Death

Chapter 14

2015

 _Mortis Album_

Mycroft stepped from the car outside UCLH. The temperature was mild despite the lateness of the hour, and Mycroft found himself tugging his high shirt collar off his neck as he climbed the steps towards the front entrance of the brightly lit hospital. The smell of disinfectant assaulted his nostrils and a gust of warm air greeted his arrival as the glass doors slid open.

Mycroft had always disliked hospitals. At any opportunity possible he would avoid them, not hesitating to spend his hard earned money to stay out of the hot, bustling hubs of sickness and noise. Trust Sherlock to push him past his boundaries.

He gave a cursory smile at the receptionist as she directed him to Sherlock's room. His umbrella tucked under his arm, he stepped aside to allow a bed to be wheeled out of the huge lift before stepping in himself. The burnished steel walls blurred his reflection, and Mycroft found his mind wandering as he stared at the figure of himself, briefly allowing worry to seep into his demeanour. The lift pinged and Mycroft made a beeline to his brother.

The scene he encountered was peaceful enough: Sherlock lay in the bed, breathing shallowly, a drip in his arm and an oxygen tube at his nose. John and Mrs Hudson sat in chairs beside him. Mycroft's keen eyes and practiced ability to read situations told him otherwise, however. All was not as it seemed.

"John, Mrs Hudson." Mycroft greeted as he entered, hanging his umbrella smoothly on the coat rack in the corner as he passed. "What happened?"

John didn't bother questioning how Mycroft knew something had happened. "Sherlock had a seizure."

The older Holmes didn't realise he'd quickened his pace until he found himself by the bedside, peering at Sherlock. His hand found his little brother's shoulder. He could feel an abnormal heat through the gown, his eyes studying Sherlock's pallid features, pale lips and sickly, flushed cheeks.

"Is he alright?" Mycroft asked, inwardly glad his voice managed to retain some dignity, even if his actions did not.

"He's alright." John said. "His temperature climbed too high before the drugs had a chance to kick in. It's already dropping, and his blood oxygen levels are better too."

Mycroft nodded, eyes still trained on his little brother. He sighed, his shoulders drooping. ' _This is all too much'_. He'd have to take a day off at this rate.

John watched Mycroft's carefully constructed mask crack at the sight of Sherlock. He knew that the man would never admit it, but John suspected that Mycroft was taking his little bother's illness a lot harder than he was letting on. He stood.

"Mycroft, would you like to sit down? I need to call Mary." He glanced at Mrs Hudson, who caught his eye and made to stand.

"Would either of you like a tea, dears?" She asked the room, joining John at the door. Both nodded and she smiled sweetly. John accompanied her out.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at their backs as he watched them leave, nonplussed. _'Did they prearrange that?'_ He made himself comfortable in John's chair, and settled himself to watch over his brother for the foreseeable future. He had to admit, it was nice just to sit in silence for a little while. He watched as Sherlock shifted in his sleep.

* * *

John sat in the waiting room. The quiet, warm ward was starting to affect him, and he could feel his eyes drooping as he sank down into a chair. He hadn't really slept yet, after all. He pressed his fingernails into his palm to try and stay awake while he listened to the dial tone. A tinny click, and the sound of his wife filtered down the line.

"John?"

"Sorry, darling. Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, but I wanted to be woken. How's Sherlock?"

"He's…"

"What happened?"

"He had a seizure-"

He was cut off by a gasp. "Sherlock! Is he alright?"

"Yeah, he's fine. But it gave us all a scare."

"It would give anyone a scare. How long do you think he'll be in for?"

"If his temperature drops and stays down, he'll probably be discharged tomorrow at some point. If not… well, I don't know."

There was a pause, and John could imagine the look on his wife's face. He found himself wishing he could hug her.

"Come home soon, alright John? Even just for a little while."

John hummed in agreement, and Mary chuckled.

"I'll even go against _all_ of my natural instincts and save you a crumpet."

"Well, how can I refuse now?" John laughed. "I'll try and be home for breakfast."

The two said their goodbyes and John ended the call, slipping it into his pocket. His body craved a drink, and suddenly imagining Mrs Hudson struggling through the hallways with three full cups of tea, he made his way down to the canteen to try and intercept her journey.

* * *

Sherlock felt as though he'd been dragged backwards through a thick fog. His head was stuffy, his mind limp and tepid. He was cold, but his skin felt sticky with sweat. He could feel a strand of curly hair poking at his eye. As he slowly began to take notice of his surroundings, the smell of disinfectant and the sounds of someone breathing next to him filtered through the haze.

"Sherlock?" A familiar voice next to him spoke.

His brows knitted together and he turned his head away. ' _No_. _Go away._ '

"Sherlock. I know you're awake."

Sherlock grunted, and took a deep breath to sigh, but it caught in his throat. _"Damn, bad idea…'_ His mind observed as he began to cough deep, rattling coughs that forced his body forward and pulled at something on his face. His hands scrabbled for the object under his nose but they were pulled away. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder, and he felt a heavy _thump_ on his back as they hit him hard. _One, two, three._

The beats certainly worked. Sherlock found his breath. He opened his eyes to the face of a smiling nurse. "Are you alright?" She asked, her hand casually taking his pulse while she checked his pupils. Sherlock nodded, rubbing his chest gingerly as she helped ease him back down to the bed. She chuckled. "Nothing beats a good NHS thump on the back!"

Sherlock watched her bustle around the room as he tried to regain full control over his breathing. Noticing for the first time his brother sat next to him, he turned, inwardly smirking at the shellshocked expression on Mycroft's face as he eyed the nurse. "Mycroft." Sherlock croaked, his voice ropy.

"Sherlock. How are you feeling?"

"Death warmed up."

Mycroft frowned. "That's a little… less inventive than usual."

"Not feeling very inventive at the moment."

"Well, I'm not surprised."

At that moment, John and Mrs Hudson re-entered the room, their faces lighting up at the sight of an awake Sherlock. They joined him and Mycroft around the bed.

John handed Mycroft a cup of tea and looked back at Sherlock. "How do you feel?"

"Fine." Sherlock croaked, wincing as the sound scraped at his sore throat. He was aware nobody believed him. He didn't believe himself.

"Do you remember how you got here?"

Sherlock shook his head. John took a breath. "Your temperature climbed above 40 and you couldn't wake up, so I called an ambulance. We came with you - yes, I know that's obvious Sherlock - and then when you arrived here, you had a seizure."

Sherlock stopped mid eye-roll, his expression flickering from exasperated to surprised. "A seizure?"

"Don't worry dear. There are no negative side effects, but you scared us aplenty." Mrs Hudson said, her small hands finding Sherlock's closest to her and squeezing. Sherlock squeezed back, his eyes softening as he looked at the old woman. He turned back to John.

"So when are we leaving?" He husked.

"Not at least until you can speak, little brother." Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock let out a wheezy grunt. "Stop enjoying yourself, Mycroft."

"Try it."

* * *

John pushed his key into the front door. The lock let out a satisfying click as it opened. He sat on the bottom step and unlaced his shoes, smiling when his wife Mary came into the hallway to greet him.

"Hello."

"You look… tired."

"Well, I only managed a couple of hours last night."

Mary pouted and joined him on the step, resting her head on John's shoulder as he slumped against the wall. She patted his leg comfortingly, and they sat for a moment in silence until Mary spoke.

"I would happily sit here all day with you… but I just made a tea and it's getting cold."

John smirked. "Tea is important."

"It is. Which is why you should help me up so I can drink it."

"Only if you make me that crumpet you promised."

Mary mock sighed. "Fine. I left you the crossword."

"Wait, what?!" John cried. "The _crossword?"_

"Serves you right for not being here in time for Sudoku!"

John frowned. "Remind me why I love you again?"

"You don't," Mary cackled. "Serves you right for putting a bun in the oven."

John smirked. "Oh, you've done it now. I'm leaving you on this step forever. _I'll_ drink your tea."

"You wouldn't!"

"Watch me."

Mary grabbed the banister and heaved herself up, placing herself between John and the kitchen, turning her body sideways so her stomach blocked the hallway. "Hah."

"Scuppered." John stood, a warm smile on his face - something which he'd noticeably lacked in the past few days. She pulled him into a tight hug, burying her head into his neck, one of her hands gently carding through his hair. John's arms snaked around her body, and he pulled her as close as her bulging stomach would allow. She felt his warm breath. After a few moments, she lifted her head a little.

"Tea."

"Yes, yes."

* * *

Mycroft signed the documents needed to allow Sherlock to leave the hospital. His car was already waiting, and the nurses had helped Sherlock into a wheelchair, much to his chagrin. Mycroft looked over his brother angrily gripping the armrests. "It's just a wheelchair, Sherlock. It's not like you'd be capable of making it to the car under your own steam."

Sherlock let out a humph and turned away, pouting.

"Sulk all you like." Mycroft sighed, before beginning to push his brother out of his ward room and into the hallways. Sherlock pulled up his mask as they left the isolation ward, and Mycroft wheeled him through the hospital and out int the open streets. The cooler air caught in Sherlock's throat, and he stifled a cough as they came alongside his black car.

"Ready to move?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock nodded, readying himself for a shift. He braced his arm against his chair as Mycroft held out a hand, and together they heaved the skinny sleuth up and into the car seat. Mycroft folded the wheelchair, handed it to the driver, and joined Sherlock in the back. Sherlock had already spotted Mycroft's little 'gift'; his trusty blue scarf was wound around his neck. He watched his brother gaze languidly out of the window as they pulled away from the hospital.

"Stop staring, Mycroft." Sherlock mumbled, his voice still hoarse. "I'm not a circus attraction."

Mycroft shrugged a little and turned away, still casting perfunctory glances at his brother at regular intervals. He looked so frail - it was unnerving to say the least. Though he knew it was irrational, he felt the need to check that the movement of the car hadn't caused him to break clean in two.

They arrived at Sherlock's flat, Sherlock mutely complying with Mycroft's requests, until he saw the wheelchair.

"No. I am walking across my threshold."

Mycroft groaned. "Come on, Sherlock - don't make this harder than it already i-"

"No!"

Sherlock's flatly adamant expression told Mycroft that it would probably be quicker just to let him walk. He sighed bodily, before helping him out of the car and slinging one of Sherlock's delicate arms over his shoulder. They made the slow journey into the house and up the stairs, Sherlock stopping for breath twice on the way up. A sheen of sweat shone on both of the men's brows when they finally reached the sofa. Mycroft deposited John unceremoniously onto the squashy piece of furniture, and went to put the kettle on.

By the time he returned with two cups of fresh tea, Sherlock was asleep.

* * *

The meaning of this chapter is _White Death,_ which was a popular term used in the 1800's to describe TB.

As per demand, here is a present day chapter :) I hope you liked it!

I may update soon… I may not. It's nice to have some mystery in life.

Please review! I appreciate every single one so much 3


	15. Choeras

Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 15

2004

 _Choeras_

 _"Sherlock, where have you been? You look a mess. No stop, don't go. God, you're so stubborn. What happened, brother? What happened to the little pirate I used to know?"_

The first sense that Sherlock had that he may be in terrible danger was the uneven bounce of suspensions under his shoulder. The hard surface beneath him did nothing to cushion the impact as whatever vehicle he was locked inside sped over a bump in the road. His head bounced painfully and left a ringing in his ears. He could feel something wet near his face, but he couldn't be sure if it was blood or vomit. He wasn't sure he wanted to check.

Sherlock cracked open a sore eye and gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position, taking stock of his situation. He was traveling in the back of a van. It was gloomy, the only light seeping in from a small gap between the doors. Dragging himself across the gritty floor, he peered out only to see tarmac whizzing below him. ' _We're travelling fast,'_ his groggy mind supplied him. Well, it didn't take a genius to work that out. The van was jerking and swaying, and the sound of car engines echoed around him. He was on the motorway. He slid himself to the wall and slumped against it. It vibrated under his back.

Sherlock studied his surroundings as his eyes got used to the dark. There was a grubby rug bunched up in one corner of the van. A bottle of water rolled around near his feet. The small puddle near where he'd woken up seemed to be a worrying mix of vomit _and_ blood. His hand quickly found his temples, searching for the injury, but there was none. He gently slid his fingertips across his face, comprehension dawning when he found crusted blood on his nose. _'Ah. Nosebleed,'_ he mused as he snatched up the water bottle and took a sip. The water tasted stale and warm, but he didn't care. His body pitched forward as the van took a sharp turn, the sounds of other cars dimming somewhat as they continued on. They'd turned off the motorway. Sherlock had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, and so could do little to work out where he might be. He couldn't hear anything from the driver's compartment, and a quick check of his pockets told him his phone was gone. He could do little but wait, sip stale water and try to ignore the uncomfortable ache in his limbs, head and stomach.

—

Mycroft was beside himself. He hadn't seen Sherlock for two weeks, and apart from a couple of terse replies to texts, hadn't spoken to him either. He hadn't judged this as wholly unusual, until his brother had begged off last week's dinner to today, and then failed to turn up at all. Although Sherlock liked to express otherwise, Mycroft knew his little brother. Sherlock was unsociable, in denial and stubborn as a mule, but he was not unreliable. These weekly meetings were a mutual agreement of responsibility they both took: it allowed Mycroft to check up on Sherlock without crossing his boundaries, and made sure Sherlock cared for himself enough to be able to attend.

For Sherlock to abscond without any warning was deeply worrying. The last time this had happened, he'd found Sherlock face down on the floor of his flat, and Mycroft feared he'd find a similar situation this time. He watched the world speed past, the city lights blinking on and off as his car travelled towards his brother's home. He allowed himself to entertain the vain hope that Sherlock had simply overslept, and upon entering his flat he would find him in bed watching television. _'Oh, that was this evening?'_ He'd say, with a cheeky smile.

The car swung up to the terraced townhouse where Sherlock lived. Mycroft allowed his driver to open the door, his cane clacking against the pavement tiles as he stepped out and ascended the steps. By the front door was a line of doorbells next to names. Mycroft pressed the one labelled _Holmes,_ and waited. He pressed again, his stomach sinking through he floor as it became apparent that Sherlock was not going to answer. Sighing, he dipped a hand into his suit pocket and pulled out a small key, pushing it into the front door and letting himself in. Sherlock was fully aware that his brother had a key to his flat, but Mycroft still preferred to allow him to answer the door. Mycroft didn't like using the key. Not that he felt bad about invading his brother's privacy; it was more the fact that whenever he had to let himself in, he was likely to find something unsavoury.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he opened the door to his flat. "Sherlock?"

The flat smelled dusty and slightly stale, as if the windows hadn't been opened in a while. As Mycroft stepped further into the little flat he tried to ignore the various drug related paraphernalia scattered around the flat. Needles, most (thankfully) still in their packets were dotted around the kitchen table among letters and newspapers, the open box on the kitchen side next to the dregs of a bowl of cereal and an empty mug. A yellow sharps box sat on the coffee table in the living room. Mycroft didn't miss the empty bottle of cocaine solution peeping out from under the sofa. "Sherlock?" Mycroft tried again, his voice slightly tinged with fear as he saw the bedroom door was closed. He gingerly knocked it, waiting for a reply. When none came, he cracked the door and poked his head around, surprised to find the curtains were open. It was empty.

Mycroft let out a shaky breath. The knowledge that he was entirely alone weighed heavy on his shoulders.

—

The van slowed down and stopped before the engine shuddered off. Sherlock felt a rush of anxiety as he heard the front doors of the van opening and two pairs of footsteps crunching towards the back doors. He pulled his knees towards him as they opened the doors, light flooding into the space and making him squint at the two silhouettes in the doorway. He wasn't given a chance to acclimatise. The taller one grabbed him roughly by the arm and puled him out of the van. Sherlock stumbled, his knees buckling slightly as his body dealt with the sudden change in position. The tight grip on his arm didn't lessen when he righted himself, instead dragging him forward into a brisk trot. He peered at the people frog-marching him. Two men glowered back. They were both muscular, with short hair and black t-shirts. _'Private security… but why?'_

The surrounding area gave nothing away. Apart from the building they were marching towards, the area was an industrial wasteland. They were surrounded by empty warehouses and derelict factory buildings, but Sherlock couldn't distinguish any of the faded paintwork signs from the short look he had the opportunity of taking. The structure in front of him was a disused Victorian factory, the classic saw-tooth style roof piercing the grey skyline. At one time it was likely some sort of cotton mill. Now with all the machinery long gone, it could house anything at all.

The security men pulled Sherlock towards an unassuming blue door to the side of the building. The paint was chipped and peeling, the doorframe rusted with age. Not loosening his iron grip on Sherlock, one lifted up a beefy hand and knocked sharply. Seconds later, the door cracked open an inch, and Sherlock could see the glint of a beady eye before it was pulled fully back to reveal a heavy set woman with bushy red hair. "Phil, Amad!" She cried, her face breaking out into a grin. "You're just in time for tea. I've got scones and jam!"

"Thanks Mrs P. We'll just get rid of this," he jostled Sherlock, "and then we'll be right up."

Sherlock inhaled indignantly, readying to utter something rude, when a large hand was clamped over his mouth. "Not a word, now," the guard said, grinning. "I don't want to have to hurt that pretty face, but I will."

Sherlock for once did the wise thing, and clamped his mouth shut. He was frog-marched into a nearby room and roughly thrown to the ground, his face scraping across the filthy floor. He heard a loud _clank_ as the door was shut behind him, and then the unmistakable sound of a heavy bolt sliding home. The sound of the men's voices echoed away as they left him. Sherlock sat up, peering around the tiny little room. It was bare apart from a wooden chair, a bucket, a dented litre bottle of water and a mattress on the floor. A tiny window near the ceiling dimly lit the space. He pulled himself gingerly onto the wooden chair and unscrewed the water bottle, taking a sip.  
He had no idea where he was, or why he was there. He was hungry, tired, and scared. And _god_ , did he need a hit.

* * *

The title of this chapter translates to _King's Evil,_ or as you Historians may know it, _Scrofula_. There was a belief that the Kings and Queens of England had a divine power which enabled them to cure those with TB by touching them. (Hah, I'm imagining Queen Liz conking people on the head now.)

I am deeply sorry for the lack of updates. It turns out that dissertations and third year at university in general is much more time consuming than it looks, and I get burned out.

I promise with my whole body that this fic will be finished eventually. It's just gonna take a while. Bear with me.


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